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AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

RECENT  POETRY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/anthologyofrecenOOwaltrich 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

RECENT  POETRY 


COMPILED  BY 

L.  D'O.  WALTERS 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

HAROLD  MONRO 


The  year's  at  the  spring. 
Pippa  Passes 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


7  /  X 


Copyright,  1920, 
By  DODD,  mead  AND  COMPANY,  Inc. 


INTRODUCTION 

I 

The  best  poetry  is  always  about  the 
Earth  itself  and  all  the  strange  and  lovely 
things  that  compose  and  inhabit  it.  When 
a  'great  poet'  sets  himself  the  task  of  some 
'big  theme/  he  needs  only  to  hold,  as  it 
were,  a  magnifying  glass  to  the  earth. 
We,  who  are  born  and  live  here,  like  very 
much  to  imagine  other  worlds,  and  we  have 
even  mentally  constructed  such  another  in 
which  to  exist  after  dying  on  this  one;  but 
we  were  careful  to  make  it  a  glorified  ver- 
sion of  our  own  earth  with  everything  we 
most  love  here  intensified  and  improved  to 
the  utmost  stretch  of  human  imagination. 

To  each  man  his  'best  poetry'  is  that 
which  he  is  able  most  to  enjoy.  The  first 
object  of  poetry  is  to  give  pleasure.  Pleas- 
ure is  various,  but  it  cannot  exist  where 
the  emotions  or  the  imagination  have  not 


INTRODUCTION 

been  powerfully  stirred.  Whether  it  be 
called  sensual  or  intellectual,  pleasure  can- 
not be  willed.  It  is  impossible  to  feel 
happy  because  one  wants  to  feel  happy,  or 
sad  because  one  wishes  to  feel  sad.  But 
such  bodily  or  mental  conditions  may  be  in- 
duced from  outside  through  a  natural 
agency  such  as  poetry,  or  music. 

JVow  those  dreary  people  who  would 
maintain  that  poetry  should  deal  (some  say 
exclusively)  with  what  they  call  'big 
themes,'  or  'the  larger  life,'  are  merely  ad- 
vocating more  use  of  the  magnifying  glass 
as  against  intensive  cultivation  of  the  nat- 
ural eye.  The  poet  is  essentially  he  who 
examines  carefully,  and  learns  to  know 
fully,  every  detail  of  common  life.  He 
seeks  to  name  in  a  variety  of  manners,  and 
to  define,  the  objects  about  him,  to  com- 
pare them  with  other  objects,  near  or  re- 
mote, and  to  find,  for  the  mere  sake  of  en- 
joyment, wonderful  varieties  of  description 
and  comparison.  When  he  imagines  better 
places  than  his  earth,  or  invents  gods,  the 
impersonation  and  combination  of  the  fortu- 
-Cvi> 


INTRODUCTION 

nate  qualities  in  man,  he  is  then  using  the 
magnifying  glass  with  talent,  occasionally 
with  rare  genius.  But  the  poet  who  seeks, 
without  genius,  to  magnify  is  simply  a  fool 
who  sees  everything  too  big,  and  boasts,  in 
the  loudest  voice  he  can  raise,  of  his  dis- 
eased eyesight. 

One  of  the  peculiarities,  or  perhaps 
rather  the  essential  quality,  of  the  lyrical 
poetry  of  to-day  is  a  minute  concentration 
on  the  objects  immediately  near  it  and  an 
anxious  carefulness  to  describe  those  in  the 
most  appropriate  and  satisfactory  terms. 
Thus  it  is  often  accused  of  a  neglect  to 
sublimate  the  emotions,  and  many  critics 
have  been  at  pains  to  suggest  that  this  af- 
fection for  the  nearest  and  that  careful 
description  of  natural  events  denotes  a 
smallness  of  mental  range.  Be  it  noted, 
however,  that  the  eye  which  does  not  look 
too  far  often  sees  most.  It  is  remarkable 
that  English  lyrical  poetry  should  have 
learnt  in  this  period  of  religious  uncer- 
tainty to  clasp  itself  at  least  to  a  reality 
that  cannot  be  questioned  or  doubted.  So 
-Cvii^ 


INTRODUCTION 

far  its  faith  reaches.  It  expresses  a  trust- 
fulness in  what  it  can  definitely  perceive,  it 
hardly  ventures  outside  the  circles  of  hu- 
man daily  experience,  and  in  this  capacity 
it  reveals  an  excellence  of  many  kinds, 
sincerity  often,  and,  at  worst,  a  playfulness 
which,  if  ephemeral,  is  amusing  at  any  rate 
to  those  whom  it  is  intended  to  amuse,  and 
appropriately  irritating  to  those  whom  it 
wants  to  annoy. 

But  the  most  noticeable  characteristic  of 
the  verse  of  our  present  moment  is  its  dis- 
like of  the  aloofness  generally  associated 
with  English  poetry.  About  twice  a  cen- 
tury language  consolidates:  phrases,  which 
were  once  soft  and  new,  harden  with  use; 
words,  once  of  a  ringing  beauty,  become 
dry  and  hollow  through  excessive  repeti- 
tion. This  state  of  language  is  not  much 
noticed  by  people  who  have  no  special  use 
for  it  beyond  the  expression  of  daily  needs. 
Moreover,  they  make  new  colloquial  words 
for  themselves  as  required  without  fore- 
thought or  difficulty.  Poets,  however,  must 
consciously  search  for  new  words,  and  a 
-Cviii^ 


INTRODUCTION 

tired  condition  of  their  language  is  to  them 
a  great  difficulty.  The  Victorians  were  ab- 
solute spendthrifts  of  words:  no  vocabulary 
could  keep  pace  with  their  recklessness; 
they  bequeathed  a  language  almost  ruined 
for  sentimental  purposes — words  and 
phrases  had  acquired  either  such  an  aloof- 
ness that  for  a  long  time  no  one  any  more 
would  trouble  to  reach  up  to  them,  or  had 
become  so  thin  and  common  that  to  use 
them  would  have  been  something  like  hack- 
sawing  a  piece  of  cotton. 

Now  in  the  anthology  which  follows 
we  may  notice  a  characteristic  escape 
from  these  difficulties.  Words  have  been 
brought  down  from  their  high  places  and 
compelled  into  ordinary  use.  This  has 
been  accomplished  not  so  much  through 
any  new  familiarity  with  the  words  them- 
selves as  by  a  certain  naturalness  in  the 
attitude  of  the  people  employing  them. 
Rupert  Brooke's  "Great  Lover"  is  an  ex- 
ample. 

In  short,  these  are  the  chief  reasons  why 
present-day  poetry  is  readable  and  enter- 
^ix> 


INTRODUCTION 

taining — that  it  deals  with  familiar  sub- 
jects in  a  familiar  manner;  that,  in  doing 
so,  it  uses  ordinary  words  literally  and  as 
often  as  possible;  that  it  is  not  aloof  or 
pretentious;  that  it  refuses  to  be  bullied  by- 
tradition:  its  style,  in  fact,  is  itself. 


II 

If  an  excuse  is  to  be  sought  for  the  addi- 
tion of  this  one  more  to  the  large  number 
of  existent  collections  of  recent  poetry,  let 
it  be  in  the  nature  of  an  explanation  rather 
than  an  apology.  Good,  or  even  repre- 
sentative, poetry  requires,  in  fact,  no  apol- 
ogy, but  where  the  poems  of  some  thirty- 
two  different  authors  have  been  extracted 
from  their  books  and  placed  side  by  side  in 
one  collection,  a  discussion  of  the  apparent 
aims  of  the  anthologist  may  be  interesting, 
and  will  perhaps  lead  to  a  fuller  enjoyment 
of  the  collection  thus  produced. 

Some  readers  approach  a  volume  of 
poems  to  criticize  it,  others  with  the  object 
of  gaining  pleasure.     To  give  pleasure  is 


INTRODUCTION 

assuredly  the  object  of  this  volume.  More- 
over, it  is  adapted  to  the  tastes  of  almost 
any  age,  from  ten  to  ninety,  and  may  be 
read  aloud  by  grandchild  to  grandparent 
as  suitably  as  by  grandparent  to  grand- 
child. It  is  an  anthology  of  Poems,  not  of 
Names.  For  instance,  though  Thomas 
Hardy  is  on  the  list,  the  lyric  chosen  to 
represent  him  is  actually  more  character- 
istic of  the  book  itself  than  of  the  mind  of 
that  great  and  aged  poet.  It  is,  in  fact, 
Christian  in  atmosphere.  It  is  not  a  typ- 
ical specimen  of  Mr.  Hardy's  style.  It 
shows  him  in  that  occasional  rather  sad 
mood  of  regret  for  a  lost  superstition.  It 
is  not  the  best  of  Hardy,  but  rather  a  poem 
admirably  suited  to  the  book,  which  also 
happens,  as  by  chance,  to  be  by  the  author 
of  "The  Dynasts"  and  "Satires  of  Circum- 


stances." 


Ill 


The  collection  as  a  whole  is  modem,  and 
all  except  eight  of  its  authors  are  living 
and  writing.     Of  those  eight,  five  died  as 

-Cxi)}- 


INTRODUCTION 

soldiers  in  the  European  war,  and  are 
represented  mainly  by  what  is  known  as 
Var-poetry.'  Otherwise  such  poetry  is 
fortunately  absent.  This  absence  may  be 
justified  by  the  fact  that  most  of  the  verse 
written  on  the  subject  of  the  War  turns 
out,  surveyed  in  cooler  blood,  to  be,  as  any 
sound  judge  of  literature  must  always 
have  known,  definitely  and  unmistakably 
bad.  Much  of  it  is  by  now,  or  should  be, 
repudiated  by  its  authors.  It  was  too  often 
"the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful 
feelings";  it  too  seldom  originated  from 
"emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity." 

Rupert  Brooke's  sonnets  "The  Dead" 
and  "The  Soldier"  were  popular  almost 
from  their  first  publication.  They  belong 
undoubtedly  to  the  best  traditions  of  Eng- 
lish poetry.  Julian  Grenfell's  "Into  Bat- 
tle," and,  in  a  lesser  degree,  the  "Home 
Thoughts  from  Levantie"  of  Edward  Wynd- 
ham  Tennant,  have  acquired  popularity 
among  a  larger  number  of  folk  than  can  be 
included  in  the  general  term  'literary  cir- 
cles.' Neither  of  the  composers  of  these 
-Cxii^ 


INTRODUCTION 

verses  was  a  professional  poet.  Both  were 
men  of  attractive  personality  and  strong 
feeling,  with  education,  taste,  and  an  oc- 
casional impulse  to  write  gracefully.  In- 
trinsically either  poem  might  as  easily  have 
been  inspired  by  an  Indian  frontier  raid  as 
by  a  European  war.  They  do  not  affect 
the  traditions  of  English  poetry  by  subject  * 
or  by  form.  It  will  be  found,  as  the  years 
pass,  that  always  fewer  'war-poems'  can 
still  be  read  with  pleasure,  the  incidents 
which  gave  rise  to  them  having  become  dim 
in  human  memory.  And  these  will  not  be 
read  because  of  their  association  with  the 
Great  War,  but  for  their  qualities  as  poems 
and  their  power  to  stir  enjoyment  or  sur- 
prise in  the  reader. 

Consider  those  four  melancholy  lines  by 
which  Edward  Thomas  is  here  represented, 
remarkable  for  their  concentration  and  for 
the  crowd  of  images  they  can  suggest.  At 
present  the  words  "where  all  that  passed 
are  dead"  alone  associates  this  poem  with 
the  War.  But  death  comes  through  so 
many  causes,  that  twenty  years  from  now  a 
-Cxiii^ 


INTRODUCTION 

footnote  would  be  needed  if  it  were  desired 
to  emphasize  that  association. 

J.  E.  Flecker's  "Dying  Patriot,"  one  of 
his  three  poems  in  this  book,  was  written 
in  1914  in  Switzerland,  where  he  was  dying 
of  consumption.  It  is  certainly  less  a 
'war-poem'  than  the  same  author's  "War 
Song  of  the  Saracens." 

The  verses  entitled  "A  Petition,"  by  R. 
E.  Vemede,  are  of  a  different  kind.  They 
are  written  in  conventional  Henley-Kip- 
lingese,  and  contain  too  many  incidents  of 
a  type  of  poetic  expression  that  has  been 
used  to  excess,  as:  "wider  than  all  seas," 
"to  front  the  world,"  "quenchless  hope," 
"All  that  a  man  might  ask  thou  hast  given 
me,  England."  They  are,  nevertheless, 
useful  in  the  collection  as  a  set-off  against 
the  other  'war-poems'  and  an  instance  of 
the  more  ephemeral  type  of  patriotic  verse. 

Thus  it  would  appear  that  the  anthologist 

has  displayed  wisdom  when  including  in 

this  volume  only  few  pieces  that  may  be 

associated  with  the  War,  and  those  few 

^xivl}- 


INTRODUCTION 

(with  one  exception)  on  the  score  of  their 
literary  merit,  and  for  no  other  reason. 


IV 

Poets  of  to-day  write  individually  less 
than  their  predecessors,  and  most  of  them 
are  satisfied  to  publish  only  a  proportion 
of  what  they  write.  None  of  the  eight  re- 
ferred to  above  left  us  any  great  bulk  of 
verse.  Four  at  least,  however,  are  becom- 
ing daily  better  known  to  the  reading  pub- 
lic, and,  of  these,  Rupert  Brooke  and  J.  E. 
Flecker  have  already  their  dozens  of  con- 
scious or  unconscious  imitators.  The  form, 
rhythm,  or  Eastern  atmosphere  of  Flecker's 
poetry,  the  cynicism  and  wit  of  Brooke's,  re- 
cur somewhere  diluted  in  the  verse  of  almost 
every  young  undergraduate.  Neither  Li- 
onel Johnson  nor  Mary  Coleridge  have  ever 
become  so  well  known  or  received  so  much 
attention  from  the  average  plagiarist,  while 
the  reputation  of  Edward  Tholmas  has  been 
of  slow  and  uncertain  growth.  Johnson's 
-Cxv> 


INTRODUCTION 

poetry  is  too  intellectual  for  the  average 
writer.  The  wonderful,  small  lyrics  of 
Mary  Coleridge  are  esoteric  rather  than 
general.  Nevertheless,  this  anthology  in- 
cludes, most  advisedly,  a  good  poem  by 
Johnson,  one  indeed  which  has  had  a  quiet, 
but  strong,  influence  on  modem  lyrical 
poetry,  namely,  the  Lines  to  the  Statue  of 
King  Charles  at  Charing  Cross,  and  also  a 
charming  impression  by  Mary  Coleridge. 

"Street  Lanterns"  is  a  good  example  of 
that  poetry  of  close  observation  to  which 
reference  has  already  been  made.  It  is  a 
small,  careful  description  of  a  London 
scene.  It  assumes  that  the  reader  has  ob- 
served as  much,  and  that  he  will  enjoy  to 
be  reminded  and  brought  back  for  a  mo- 
ment in  imagination  to  autumn  and  street- 
mending.  The  advocate  of  'big  themes' 
will  inevitably  condemn  such  verse,  for  the 
poet  has  aimed  at  neither  size  nor  grandeur, 
has  indeed  sought  rather  to  diminish  her 
subject  than  enlarge  it. 


•^xvi^ 


INTRODUCTION 


This  anthology,  it  has  been  remarked 
above,  is  one  rather  of  particular  poems 
than  of  well-known  authors.  Several 
names  of  repute  are  not  to  be  found  in 
the  index.  William  Watson  is  only  repre- 
sented by  "April,"  a  little  catch  that  might 
come  to  any  man  of  feeling  on  a  spring 
walk.  To  think  in  terms  of  these  verses  is 
at  once  not  to  mind  having  left  an  umbrella 
at  home.  Hilaire  Belloc  gives  a  sharp  im- 
pression of  early  rising;  he  also  sings  in  a 
great  voice  all  the  glories  of  his  favourite 
part  of  England.  W.  H.  Davies  brings 
sheep  across  the  Atlantic,  and  he  talks  to  a 
kingfisher.  Mrs.  Meynell  contributes  that 
well-known  description  of  a  pure  and  se- 
rene mind,  also  two  London  poems,  of 
which  one  is  the  lovely  "November  Blue." 
John  Masefield  is  not  to  be  read  in  his  best 
style,  but  the  three  poems  we  find  here  are 
thoroughly  English,  full  of  the  love  of  the 
island  soil  and  of  its  sea,  and  are  probably 
in  the  book  for  that  reason.  So  much  for 
^xvii^ 


INTRODUCTION 

some  of  the  well-known  contributors.  Side 
by  side  with  them  we  find  the  unknown 
name  of  H.  H.  Abbott,  whose  "Black  and 
White"  is  a  sketch  of  remarkable  clarity 
and  interest. 

Death,  so  favourite  a  subject  with  poets, 
is  seldom  allowed  to  figure  in  this  book. 
Betsey-Jane  would  insist  on  going  to 
Heaven,  but  is  told,  in  the  charming  verses 
by  Helen  Parry  Eden,  that  it  simply 
"would  not  do."  The  whole  book  is  too 
full  of  pleasure  and  the  experience  of 
being  alive:  Betsey- Jane  should  read  it. 
She  might  remember  all  her  life  the  advice 
given  on  page  98,  and  be  saved  hundreds 
of  pounds  in  lawyers'  bills  when  she  is 
grown  up. 

Let  the  reader  turn  to  page  92.  Here 
is  the  style  in  which  good  poetry  prefers  to 
teach,  and  by  which  it  achieves  more  in 
eleven  lines  than  a  Martin  Tupper  in 
11,000.  Mr.  Pepler  has  written  down  only 
one  sentence,  charmingly  improved  by  a 
series  of  most  natural  rhymes.  It  is  a 
very  nasty  hit  at  the  lawyer.  He  does  not 
•Cxviii^ 


INTRODUCTION 

tell  him  he  is  not  a  ^gentleman,'  or  any- 
thing so  strong  as  that.  He  pays  him  what 
might  be  taken  for  a  compliment.  He  as- 
sumes that  he  does  understand  his  own  job. 
Then  he  enumerates  the  things  he  does  not 
understand.  He  attaches  no  blame:  he 
makes  a  statement  only;  one  that  the  lawyer 
certainly  will  not  think  worth  arguing, 
but  that  his  client  may  advisedly  take  to 
heart. 

Ralph  Hodgson's  "Stupidity  Street" 
argues  in  somewhat  the  same  manner.  It 
does  not  suggest  that  anyone  should  become 
vegetarian,  or  that  it  is  wrong  to  kill  birds. 
It  names  a  street  and  gives  a  reason  for 
doing  so.  It  is  an  angry  little  poem,  but 
impersonal. 

"The  Bells  of  Heaven,"  by  the  same  au- 
thor, simply  chances  a  hint  that  something 
might  happen  if  something  else  did.  It  is 
a  suggestion  only,  but  made  by  one  who 
knows  what  he  thinks,  and  how  to  think  it. 
Into  a  few  lines  a  whole  philosophy  is  con- 
centrated. 

Thus  Pepler  or  Ralph  Hodgson  nudge 
^xix^ 


INTRODUCTION 

people's  arms  and  draw  attention  to  tradi- 
tional stupidities. 

Walter  De  la  Mare  puts  the  children  to 
sleep  with  "Nod,"  or  bewitches  them  with 
the  Mad  Prince's  Song;  or  he  takes  us  to 
an  Arabia  which  never  existed,  but  is  one 
of  those  countries  more  beautiful  than  any 
we  know,  and  therefore  we  love  to  im- 
agine it. 

Look  at  that  full  moon  on  page  25, 
which  Dick  saw  'one  night.'  Here  is  the 
possible  experience  of  man,  woman,  child, 
dog,  fox,  bear — or  even  nightingale — :all 
concentrated  into  the  shortest  and  plainest 
account  of  something  that  happened  to 
Dick.  He  and  Betsey- Jane,  though  quite 
different  in  kind,  belong  to  the  same  world. 
Betsey-Jane  is  plainly  more  romantic  than 
Dick. 

But,  talking  of  the  moon,  we  may  turn 
back  to  Mr.  Chesterton  on  page  7.  Here 
we  find  something  incongruous  in  the  col- 
lection: a  poem  that  wishes  deliberately  to 
strike  a  note.  The  donkey  is  a  much  better 
fellow  than  Mr.  Chesterton  seems  to  think: 
^xx> 


INTRODUCTION 

he  does  not  ask  for  glorification  nor  would 
he  utter  that  boast  of  the  last  two  lines. 
Would  a  man  not  rather  "go  with  the  wild 
asses  to  Paradise"  than  have  the  case  for 
the  donkey  pleaded  before  him  in  this  ob- 
trusive manner? 

Turn  back  two  pages  and  you  will  find: 

"For  the  good  are  always  the  merry, 

Save  by  an  evil  chance, 
And  the  merry  love  the  fiddle. 
And  the  merry  love  to  dance." 

This,  by  W.  B.  Yeats,  represents  a  much 
pleasanter  type  of  thought.  In  these  verses 
of  the  Irish  poet  we  have  the  gaiety  of  a 
man  who,  knowing  all  about  religion,  can 
afford  not  to  be  sentimental.  And  here  is 
the  spirit  of  the  book. 

The  happiness  of  those  who  love  the 
earth  is  so  different  from  the  pleasure  by 
proxy  of  those  that  abide  it  in  the  idea  of 
going  to  some  Heaven  afterward.  Mr. 
Yeats'  "Fiddler  of  Dooney"  is  that  type  of 
fellow  who  accepts  the  symbolism  of  a  na- 
tional religion  only  in  so  far  as  it  may  help 
-Cxxi^ 


INTRODUCTION 

him  to  enjoy  the  condition  of  being  alive. 
And  in  his  "Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree"  he 
imagines  a  Paradise  which  is  of  the  earth 
only.  And  he  takes  you  there  by  reason  of 
his  own  longing. 

VI 

This  anthology,  as  a  whole,  is  romantic; 
its  language  is  simple;  its  philosophy  is 
that  of  everyday  life,  and  is  entirely  undis- 
turbing.  It  contains  a  large  proportion  of 
poems  by  authors  who  write  more  particu- 
larly for  children,  such  as  P.  R.  Chalmers, 
Rose  Fyleman,  Queenie  Scott-Hopper,  and 
Marion  St.  John  Webb,  or  of  children's 
poems  by  authors  who  do  not  actually  spe- 
cialize in  that  style,  such  as  "The  Ragwort," 
by  Frances  Comford;  "Cradle  Song,"  by 
Sarojini  Naidu;  "Check,"  by  James  Steph- 
ens, and  others.  Two  of  its  authors  remain 
necessarily  unmentioned  here,  namely,  the 
compiler  of  the  book  and  the  writer  of  this 
introduction. 

Some  people  make  it  their  business  to 
-Cxxii!}- 


INTRODUCTION 

pick  anthologies  to  pieces,  and  they  seem 
to  enjoy  themselves.  "Why  is  this  in- 
cluded?" they  cry;  "Why  is  that  left  out?" 
— a  form  of  criticism  nearly  always  beside 
the  point.  Inclusion  or  exclusion  are  in 
the  taste  and  discretion  of  the  anthologist. 
This  Introduction  may,  it  is  hoped,  stim- 
ulate the  reader  of  the  poems  which  follow 
to  think  about  them  carefully  in  their  rela- 
tion to  each  other,  and  in  their  relation  to 
English  poetry  as  a  whole.  For  though  it 
has  frequently  been  emphasized  that  the  ob- 
ject of  poetry  (and  particularly  of  lyrical 
poetry)  is  to  give  pleasure,  it  should  never- 
theless be  addded  that  intellectual  pleasure 
cannot  be  gathered  at  random,  or  without 
certain  preparation  of  the  mind  to  receive 
it. 

Harold  Monro. 


•Cxxiii^ 


CONTENTS 

Arranged  under  names  of  Authors 

PAGE 

Abbott,  H.  H. 

Black  and  White Ill 

Anderson,  J.  Redwood 

The  Bridge 99 

Allotments 102 

Belloc,  Hilaire 

The  Early  Morning 8 

The  South  Country      .•.•..       9 

Brady,  E.  J. 

A  Ballad  of  the  Captains 19 

Brooke,  Rupert 

The  Dead 32 

The  Great  Lover 34 

The  Soldier 40 

Chalmers,  P.  R. 

If  I  had  a  Broomstick 51 

Roundabouts  and  Swings 52 

Chesterton,  G.  K. 
The  Donkey 7 

Coleridge,  Mary  E. 

•j*  Street  Lanterns 96 

-Cxxv> 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CoRNFORD,  Frances 

In  France 47 

The  Ragwort 48 

Davies,  W.  H. 

The  Kingfisher 63 

Sheep 64 

De  la  Mare,  Walter 

r  Arabia 23 

)^  Full  Moon 25 

Nod 26 

The  Song  of  the  Mad  Prince    ...  28 

Drinkwater,  John 

A  Town  Window    ...••..     55 
Eden,  Helen  Parry 

To  Betsey-Jane,  on  Her  Desiring  to  go 
Incontinently  to  Heaven     ....     98 

Flecker,  James  E. 

Brumana 56 

The  Dying  Patriot 57 

November  Eves 60 

Fyleman,  Rose 

Alms  in  Autumn .  83 

I  Don't  Like  Beetles 85 

Wishes 86 

Gibson,  W.  W. 

Sweet  as  the  Breath  of  the  Whin  ...     91 

Graves,  Robert 
Star-Talk      ....      .-     .      •     •     .61 

-Cxxvi:}- 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Grenfell,  Julian 

Into  Battle  ......     w     ••     69 

Hardy,  Thomas 

The  Oxen 113 

Hodgson,  Ralph 

The  Bells  of  Heaven 77 

The  Song  of  Honour 78 

Stupidity  Street 80 

HooLEY,  Teresa 
Sea-Foam 108 

Johnson,  Lionel 

By  the  Statue  of  King  Charles  at  Charing 
Cross 42 

Mackenzie,  Margaret 

To  the  Coming  Spring 81 

McLeod,  Irene 

Lone  Dog 49  t^ 

Masefield,  John 

Sea  Fever 12 

Tewkesbury  Road 14 

The  West  Wind .     16 

Meynell,  Alice 

A  Dead  Harvest 29 

November  Blue 30 

The  Shepherdess 31 

Monro,  Harold 

Overheard  on  a  Saltmarsh     ....     72 
A  Flower  Is  Looking  Through  the  Ground    74 

Man  Carrying  Bale 75 

^xxvii> 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Naidu,  Sarojini 

Cradle-Song       ........       6 

Pepler,  H.  D.  C. 

The  Law  the  Lawyers  Know  About  .  .  92 
Scott-Hopper,  Queenie 

Very  Nearly! 87 

What  the  Thrush  Says 88 

Stephens,  James 
^  Check 45 

When  the  Leaves  Fall 46 

Tennant,  E.  W. 

Home  Thoughts  in  Laventie  ....  66 
Thomas,  E. 

The  Cherry  Trees 76 

Vernede,  R.  E. 

A  Petition 109 

Walters,  L.  D'O. 

All  Is  Spirit  and  Part  of  Me  ....  93 
;C  Seville 94 

Watson,  Sir  William 

April 1 

Webb,  Marion  St.  John 

X  The  Sunset  Garden 90 

Yeats,  W.  B. 

The  Fiddler  of  Dooney 2 

l^The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree     ....       4 

Young,  Francis  Brett 
February •     *  106 

-Cxxviii:}- 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For  their  kindly  permission  to  use  copyright 
poems  the  Editor  is  deeply  indebted  to: 

The  Authors — H.  H.  Abbott,  Hilaire  Belloc, 
P.  R.  Chalmers,  G.  K.  Chesterton,  Frances  Corn- 
ford,  W.  H.  Davies,  Walter  De  la  Mare,  John 
Drinkwater,  Rose  Fyleman,  W.  W.  Gibson, 
Robert  Graves,  Ralph  Hodgson,  Teresa  Hooley, 
Margaret  Mackenzie,  Irene  McLeod,  John  Mase- 
field,  Alice  Meynell,  Harold  Monro,  Sarojini 
Naidu,  H.  D.  C.  Pepler,  James  Stephens,  Sir 
William  Watson,  Marion  St.  John  Webb,  and 
W.  B.  Yeats. 

The  Literary  Executors  of  Rupert  Brooke, 
Mary  E.  Coleridge  (Sir  Henry  Newbolt),  James 
Elroy  Flecker  (Mrs.  Flecker),  Julian  Grenfell 
(Lady  Desborough),  Lionel  Johnson  (Mr.  Elkin 
Mathews),  Edward  Wyndham  Tennant  (Lady 
Glenconner),  Edward  Thomas  (Messrs.  Selwyn 
and  Blount),  R.  E.  Vemede. 

And  the  following  Publishers,  in  respect  of 
the  poems  selected: 

Messrs.  Burns  and  Gates,  Ltd. 
Alice  Meynell:  Collected  Poems. 
•Cxxix^ 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Messrs.  Constable  and  Co.,  Ltd. 
.   Wajter  De  la  Mare:  The  Listeners,  Peacock 
Me.     ' 

■A;  h']  3';  i  ]^^{^rs.  J.'  M.  Dent  and  Sons,  Ltd. 

G.  K.  Cliesterton:  The  Wild  Knight. 

Messrs.  Duckworth  and  Co. 
Hilaire  Belloc:  Verses, 

Mr.  A.  C.  Fifield 

W.  H.  Davies:  Collected  Poems. 

Messrs.  George  G.  Harrap  and  Co.,  Ltd. 
E.  J.  Brady:  The  House  of  the  Winds, 
Queenie  Scott-Hopper:  Pull  the  Bobbin. 
Marion  St.  John  Webb:  The  Littlest  One. 

The  Macmillan  Company,  New  York 
John  Masefield:  Ballads  and  Poems. 

Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  Boston 
John  Drinkwater:  Poems  by  John  Drinkwater. 

Mr.  W.  Heinemann,  London,  and  the  John  Lane 
Company,  New  York 
Sarojini  Naidu:  The  Golden  Threshold. 

Mr.  John  Lane,  London,  and  the  John  Lane  Com- 
pany, New  York 
Helen  Parry  Eden:  Bread  and  Circuses. 
Edward  Wyndham  Tennant,  by  Pamela  Glen- 
conner. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Messrs.  Macmillan  and  Co.,  Ltd.,  London,  and 
The  Macmillan  Company,  New  York 

W.  W.  Gibson:  Whin, 

Ralph  Hodgson:  Poems. 

J.  Stephens:  The  Adventures  of  Seumas  Beg, 
Songs  from  the  Clay. 

W.  B.  Yeats:  Poems:  Second  Series. 

Messrs.  Maunsel  and  Co. 

P.  R.  Chalmers:  Green  Days  and  Blue  Days. 

Poetry  Bookshop 

H.  H.  Abbott:  Black  and  White. 
Frances  Cornford:  Spring  Morning. 
R.  Graves:  Over  the  Brazier. 

Messrs.  Sands  and  Co. 
M.    Mackenzie:    The   Station    Platform    and 
Other  Poems. 

Mr.  Martin  Seeker 

J.  E.  Flecker:  Collected  Poems. 
Francis  Brett  Young:  Poems,  1916-1918. 

Messrs.  Selwyn  and  Blount,  London,  and  Messrs. 
Henry  Holt  &  Company,  New  York 
Edward  Thomas:  Poems. 

Messrs.  Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  Ltd. 

J.  Redwood  Anderson:  Walls  and  Hedges. 
Rupert  Brooke:   1914  and  Other  Poems. 
-Cxxxi> 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Messrs.  T.  Fisher  Unwin,  Ltd. 
W,  B.  Yeats:  Poems. 

The  John  Lane  Company,  New  York 
Rupert  Brooke:  1914  and  Other  Poems. 


-Cxxxii:}- 


An  Anthology  of 
Recent  Poetry 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
RECENT  POETRY 

APRIL 

^PRIL,  April, 
Laugh  thy  girlish  laughter; 
Then,  the  moment  after, 
Weep  thy  girlish  tears! 
April,  that  mine  ears 
Like  a  lover  greetest, 
If  I  tell  thee,  sweetest. 
All  my  hopes  and  fears, 

April,  April, 
Laugh  thy  golden  laughter, 
But,  the  moment  after. 
Weep  thy  golden  tears. 

WILLIAM   WATSON 


<l> 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  DOONEY 

^HEN  I  play  on  my  fiddle  in  Dooney, 
Folk  dance  like  a  wave  of  the  sea; 
My  cousin  is  priest  in  Kilvamet, 
My  brother  in  Moharabuiee. 

I  passed  my  brother  and  cousin: 

They  read  in  their  books  of  prayer; 

I  read  in  my  book  of  songs 
I  bought  at  the  Sligo  fair. 

When  we  come  at  the  end  of  time, 

To  Peter  sitting  in  state. 
He  will  smile  on  the  three  old  spirits. 

But  call  me  first  through  the  gate; 

For  the  good  are  always  the  merry, 

Save  by  an  evil  chance, 
And  the  merry  love  the  fiddle. 

And  the  merry  love  to  dance: 

<2> 


RECENT  POETRY 

And  when  the  folk  there  spy  me. 
They  will  all  come  up  to  me, 

With  "Here  is  the  fiddler  of  Dooney!" 
And  dance  like  a  wave  of  the  sea. 

W.    B.    YEATS 


<3> 


THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE 

WILL  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to 

Innisfree, 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay 
and  wattles  made; 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for 
the  honey  bee. 

And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for 

peace  comes  dropping  slow. 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to 

where  the  cricket  sings; 
There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a 
purple  glow. 

And   evening   full   of  the   linnet's 
wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always,  night 

and  day, 
I  hear  lake-water  lapping  with  low  sounds 

by  the  shore; 

<4^y 


RECENT  POETRY 

While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the 
pavements  grey, 

I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 

W.   B.   YEATS 


<5> 


CRADLE-SONG 

^ROM  groves  of  spice, 
O'er  fields  of  rice. 
Athwart  the  lotus-stream, 

I  bring  for  you, 

Aglint  with  dew, 
A  little  lovely  dream. 

Sweet,  shut  your  eyes. 

The  wild  fire-flies 

Dance  through  the  fairy  neem;  ^ 

From  the  poppy-bole 

For  you  I  stole 
A  little  lovely  dream. 

Dear  eyes,  good-night, 

In  golden  light 

The  stars  around  you  gleam; 

On  you  I  press 

With  soft  caress 
A  little  lovely  dream. 

SAROJINI   NAIDU 

1 A  lilac-tree  (Hindustani). 

<6> 


THE  DONKEY 

HEN  fishes  flew  and  forests  walked 
And  figs  grew  upon  thorn, 
Some  moment  when  the  moon  was 
blood 
Then  surely  I  was  born; 

With  monstrous  head  and  sickening  cry 

And  ears  like  errant  wings. 
The  devil's  walking  parody 

On  all  four-footed  things. 

The  tattered  outlaw  of  the  earth, 

Of  ancient  crooked  will; 
Starve,  scourge,  deride  me:  I  am  dumb, 

I  keep  my  secret  still. 

Fools!     For  I  also  had  my  hour; 

One  far  fierce  hour  and  sweet: 
There  was  a  shout  about  my  ears, 

And  palms  before  my  feet. 

G.    K.    CHESTERTON 

<7> 


THE  EARLY  MORNING 

?>HE  moon  on  the  one  hand,  the  dawn 
on  the  other: 
The  moon  is  my  sister,  the  dawn  is 
my  brother. 
The  moon  on  my  left  and  the  dawn  on  my 

right. 
My  brother,  good  morning:  my  sister,  good 
night. 

HILAIRE   BELLOC 


<8> 


THE  SOUTH  COUNTRY 

!HEN  I  am  living  in  the  Midlands 
That  are  sodden  and  unkind, 
I  light  my  lamp  in  the  evening: 
My  work  is  left  behind ; 
And  the  great  hills  of  the  South  Country 
Come  back  into  my  mind. 

The  great  hills  of  the  South  Country 

They  stand  along  the  sea; 
And  it's  there  walking  in  the  high  woods 

That  I  could  wish  to  be, 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a 
boy 

Walking  along  with  me. 

The  men  that  live  in  North  England 

I  saw  them  for  a  day: 
Their  hearts  are  set  upon  the  waste  fells. 

Their  skies  are  fast  and  grey; 
From  their  castle-walls  a  man  may  see 

The  mountains  far  away. 
<9> 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

The  men  that  live  in  West  England 

They  see  the  Severn  strong, 
A-rolling  on  rough  water  brown 

Light  aspen  leaves  along. 
They  have  the  secret  of  the  Rocks, 

And  the  oldest  kind  of  song. 

But  the  men  that  live  in  the  South  Country 

Are  the  kindest  and  most  wise, 
They  get  their  laughter  from  the  loud  surf, 

And  the  faith  in  their  happy  eyes 
Comes  surely  from  our  Sister  the  Spring 

When  over  the  sea  she  flies; 
The  violets  suddenly  bloom  at  her  feet, 

She  blesses  us  with  surprise. 

I  never  get  between  the  pines 

But  I  smell  the  Sussex  air; 
Nor  I  never  come  on  a  belt  of  sand 

But  my  home  is  there. 
And  along  the  sky  the  line  of  the  Downs 

So  noble  and  so  bare. 

A  lost  thing  could  I  never  find, 
Nor  a  broken  thing  mend: 


RECENT  POETRY 

And  I  fear  I  shall  be  all  alone 

When  I  get  towards  the  end. 
Who  will  be  there  to  comfort  me 

Or  who  will  be  my  friend? 

I  will  gather  and  carefully  make  my  friends 
Of  the  men  of  the  Sussex  Weald, 

They  watch  the  stars  from  silent  folds, 
They  stiffly  plough  the  field. 

By  them  and  the  God  of  the  South  Country 
My  poor  soul  shall  be  healed. 

If  I  ever  become  a  rich  man. 

Or  if  ever  I  grow  to  be  old, 
I  will  build  a  house  with  deep  thatch 

To  shelter  me  from  the  cold. 
And  there  shall  the  Sussex  songs  be  sung 

And  the  story  of  Sussex  told. 

I  will  hold  my  house  in  the  high  wood 

Within  a  walk  of  the  sea. 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a 
boy 

Shall  sit  and  drink  with  me. 

HILAIRE   BELLOC 


SEA  FEVER 

MUST  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to 

the  lonely  sea  and  the  sky, 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star 
to  steer  her  by; 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song 

and  the  white  sail's  shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face,  and  a 
grey  dawn  breaking. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the 

call  of  the  running  tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not 

be  denied; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white 

clouds  flying,  ,, 

And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume, 

and  the  sea-gulls  crying. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  j 
vagrant  gipsy  life. 


RECENT  POETRY 

To  the  gulFs  way  and  the  whale's  way  where 
the  wind's  like  a  whetted  knife; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yam  from  a  laugh- 
ing fellow-rover, 

And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when 
the  long  trick's  over. 

JOHN   MASEFIELD 


L 


<13> 


TEWKESBURY  ROAD 

^T  is  good  to  be  out  on  the  road,  and 
going  one  knows  not  where, 
Going  through  meadow  and  village, 
one  knows  not  whither  nor  why; 
Through  the  grey  light  drift  of  the  dust, 

in  the  keen  cool  rush  of  the  air. 
Under  the   flying  white   clouds,   and   the 
broad  blue  lift  of  the  sky. 

And  to  halt  at  the  chattering  brook,  in  the 

tall  green  fern  at  the  brink 
Where  the  harebell  grows,  and  the  gorse, 

and  the  foxgloves  purple  and  white; 
Where   the   shy-eyed   delicate   deer   come 

down  in  a  troop  to  drink 
When  the  stars  are  mellow  and  large  at  the 

coming  on  of  the  night. 

0,  to  feel  the  beat  of  the  rain,  and  the 
homely  smell  of  the  earth, 


RECENT  POETRY 

Is  a  tune  for  the  blood  to  jig  to,  a  joy  past 

power  of  words; 
And  the  blessed  green  comely  meadows  are 

all  a-ripple  with  mirth 
At  the  noise  of  the  lambs  at  play  and  the 

dear  wild  cry  of  the  birds. 

JOHN    MASEFIELD 


-C15> 


THE  WEST  WIND 

j^T'S  a  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full 
of  birds'  cries; 
I  never  hear  the  west  wind  but  tears 
are  in  my  eyes. 
For  it  comes  from  the  west  lands,  the  old 

brown  hills. 
And  April's  in  the  west  wind,  and  daffodils. 

It's  a  fine  land,  the  west  land,  for  hearts  as 

tired  as  mine, 
Apple  orchards  blossom  there,  and  the  air's 

like  wine. 
There  is  cool  green  grass  there,  where  men 

may  lie  at  rest. 
And  the  thrushes  are  in  song  there,  fluting 

from  the  nest. 

"Will    you    not    come    home,     brother? 

You  have  been  long  away. 
It's  April,  and  blossom  time,  and  white  is 

the  spray: 


RECENT  POETRY 

And  bright  is  the  sun,  brother,  and  warm 

is  the  rain, 
Will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  home  to 

us  again? 

The  young  com  is  green,  brother,  where  the 

rabbits  run; 
It's  blue  sky,  and  white  clouds,  and  warm 

rain  and  sun. 
It's  song  to  a  man's  soul,  brother,  fire  to  a 

man's  brain, 
To  hear  the  wild  bees  and  see  the  merry 

spring  again. 

Larks   are   singing   in   the   west,   brother, 

above  the  green  wheat. 
So  will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  and 

rest  your  tired  feet? 
I've  a  balm  for  bruised  hearts,  brother, 

sleep  for  aching  eyes," 
Says  the  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of 

birds'  cries. 

It's  the  white  road  westwards  is  the  road  I 
must  tread 


RECENT  POETRY 

To  the  green  grass,  the  cool  grass,  and  rest 

for  heart  and  head, 
To  the  violets  and  the  brown  brooks  and  the 

thrushes'  song 
In  the  fine  land,  the  west  land,  the  land 

where  I  belong. 

JOHN   MASEFIELD 


-C18> 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  CAPTAINS 

^HERE  are  now  the  Captains 

Of  the  narrow  ships  of  old — 
Who  with  valiant  souls  went  seeking 
For  the  Fabled  Fleece  of  Gold; 
In  the  clouded  Dusk  of  Ages, 

In  the  Dawn  of  History, 
When  the  ringing  songs  of  Homer 
First  re-echoed  o'er  the  Sea? 

Oh,  the  Captains  lie  a-sleeping 
Where  great  iron  hulls  are  sweeping 

Out  of  Suez  in  their  pride; 
And  they  hear  not,  and  they  heed  not. 
And  they  know  not,  and  they  need  not 

In  their  deep  graves  far  and  wide. 

Where  are  now  the  Captains 

Who  went  blindly  through  the  Strait, 
With  a  tribute  to  Poseidon, 

A  libation  poured  to  Fate? 
They  were  heroes  giant-hearted, 

That  with  Terrors,  told  and  sung, 
^19> 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

Like  blindfolded  lions  grappled, 

When  the  World  was  strange  and  young. 

Oh,  the  Captains  brave  and  daring. 
With  their  grim  old  crews  are  faring 

Where  our  guiding  beacons  gleam; 
And  the  homeward  liners  o'er  them — 
All  the  charted  seas  before  them — 

Shall  not  wake  them  as  they  dream. 

Where  are  now  the  Captains 

From  bold  Nelson  back  to  Drake, 
Who  came  drumming  up  the  Channel, 

Haling  prizes  in  their  wake? 
Where  are  England's  fighting  Captains 

Who,  with  battle  flags  unfurled, 
Went  a-rieving  all  the  rievers 

O'er  the  waves  of  all  the  world? 

Oh,  these  Captains,  all  confiding 
In  the  strong  right  hand,  are  biding 

In  the  margins,  on  the  Main; 
They  are  shining  bright  in  story, 
They  are  sleeping  deep  in  glory, 

On  the  silken  lap  of  Fame. 
-C20> 


RECENT  POETRY 

Where  are  now  the  Captains 

Who  regarded  not  the  tears 
Of  the  captured  Christian  maidens 

Carried,  weeping,  to  Algiers? 
Yes,  the  swarthy  Moorish  Captains, 

Storming  wildly  'cross  the  Bay, 
With  a  dead  hidalgo's  daughter 

As  a  dower  for  the  Dey? 

Oh,  those  cruel  Captains  never 
Shall  sweet  lovers  more  dissever. 

On  their  forays  as  they  roll; 
Or  the  mad  Dons  curse  them  vainly. 
As  their  baffled  ships,  ungainly. 

Heel  them,  jeering,  to  the  Mole. 

Where  are  now  the  Captains 

Of  those  racing,  roaring  days. 
Who  of  knowledge  and  of  courage. 

Drove  the  clippers  on  their  ways — 
To  the  furthest  ounce  of  pressure. 

To  the  latest  stitch  of  sail, 
'Carried  on'  before  the  tempest 

Till  the  waters  lapped  the  rail? 

-C21> 


RECENT  POETRY 

Oh,  the  merry,  manly  skippers 
Of  the  traders  and  the  clippers, 

They  are  sleeping  East  and  West, 
And  the  brave  blue  seas  shall  hold 

them. 
And  the  oceans  five  enfold  them 

In  the  havens  where  they  rest. 

Where  are  now  the  Captains 

Of  the  gallant  days  agone? 
They  are  biding  in  their  places. 

And  the  Great  Deep  bears  no  traces 
Of  their  good  ships  passed  and  gone. 

They  are  biding  in  their  places. 
Where  the  light  of  God's  own  grace  is. 

And  the  Great  Deep  thunders  on. 

Yea,  with  never  port  to  steer  for. 
And  with  never  storm  to  fear  for. 

They  are  waiting  wan  and  white, 
And  they  hear  no  more  the  calling 
Of  the  watches,  or  the  falling 

Of  the  sea  rain  in  the  night. 

E.  J.  BRADY 


ARABIA 

^AR  are  the  shades  of  Arabia, 

Where  the  Princes  ride  at  noon, 
'Mid  the  verdurous  vales  and  thick- 
ets, 
Under  the  ghost  of  the  moon; 
And  so  dark  is  that  vauhed  purple 

Flowers  in  the  forest  rise 
And  toss  into  blossom  'gainst  the  phantom 
stars 
Pale  in  the  noonday  skies. 

Sweet  is  the  music  of  Arabia 

In  my  heart,  when  out  of  dreams 
I  still  in  the  thin  clear  mirk  of  dawn 

Descry  her  gliding  streams; 
Hear  her  strange  lutes  on  the  green  banks 

Ring  loud  with  the  grief  and  delight 
Of  the  demi-silked,  dark-haired  Musicians 

In  the  brooding  silence  of  night. 


^23:>' 


RECENT  POETRY 

They  haunt  me — her  lutes  and  her  forests; 

No  beauty  on  earth  I  see 
But  shadowed  with  that  dream  recalls 

Her  loveliness  to  me: 
Still  eyes  look  coldly  upon  me, 

Cold  voices  whisper  and  say — 
"He  is  crazed  with  the  spell  of  far  Arabia, 

They  have  stolen  his  wits  away." 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


-C24> 


FULL  MOON 

NE  night  as  Dick  lay  half  asleep, 
Into  his  drowsy  eyes 
A  great  still  light  began  to  creep 
From  out  the  silent  skies. 
It  was  the  lovely  moon's,  for  when 

He  raised  his  dreamy  head. 
Her  rays  of  silver  filled  the  pane 
And  streamed  across  his  bed. 
So,  for  awhile,  each  gazed  at  each — 

Dick  and  the  solemn  moon — 
Till,  climbing  slowly  on  her  way. 
She  vanished,  and  was  gone. 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


-C25P^ 


NOD 

OFTLY  along  the  road  of  evening, 
In  a  twilight  dim  with  rose, 
Wrinkled  with   age,   and   drenched 
with  dew, 
Old  Nod,  the  shepherd,  goes. 


His  drowsy  flock  streams  on  before  him, 
Their  fleeces  charged  with  gold. 
To  where  the  sun's  last  beam  leans  low 
On  Nod  the  shepherd's  fold. 

The  hedge  is  quick  and  green  with  briar, 
From  their  sand  the  conies  creep; 
And  all  the  birds  that  fly  in  heaven 
Flock  singing  home  to  sleep. 

His  lambs  outnumber  a  noon's  roses, 
Yet,  when  night's  shadows  fall. 
His  blind  old  sheep-dog.  Slumber-soon, 
Misses  not  one  of  all. 

•C26:^ 


RECENT  POETRY 

His  are  the  quiet  steeps  of  dreamland, 
The  waters  of  no-more-pain, 
His  ram's  bell  rings  'neath  an  arch  of  stars, 
"Rest,  rest,  and  rest  again." 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


-C27> 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MAD  PRINCE 

|H0  said,  "Peacock  Pie"? 

The  old  King  to  the  sparrow: 
Who  said,  "Crops  are  ripe"? 
Rust  to  the  harrow: 
Who  said,  "Where  sleeps  she  now? 

Where  rests  she  now  her  head, 
Bathed  in  eve's  loveliness"? 
That's  what  I  said. 

Who  said,  "Ay,  mum's  the  word"? 

Sexton  to  willow: 
Who  said,  "Green  dusk  for  dreams, 

Moss  for  a  pillow"? 
Who  said,  "All  Time's  delight 

Hath  she  for  narrow  bed; 
Life's  troubled  bubble  broken"? 

That's  what  I  said. 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


-C28> 


A  DEAD  HARVEST 

IN   KENSINGTON    GARDENS 

I  LONG  the  graceless  grass  of  town 
They    rake   the    rows    of   red   and 
brown, — 
Dead  leaves,  unlike  the  rows  of  hay- 
Delicate,  touched  with  gold  and  grey, 
Raked  long  ago  and  far  away. 

A  narrow  silence  in  the  park, 
Between  the  lights  a  narrow  dark. 
One  street  rolls  on  the  north;  and  one, 
Muffled,  upon  the  south  doth  run; 
Amid  the  mist  the  work  is  done. 

A  futile  crop!  for  it  the  fire 
Smoulders,  and,  for  a  stack,  a  pyre. 
So  go  the  town's  lives  on  the  breeze, 
Even  as  the  sheddings  of  the  trees; 
Bosom  nor  barn  is  filled  with  these. 

ALICE  MEYNELL 


NOVEMBER  BLUE 

The  golden  tint  of  the  electric  lights  seems  to 
give  a  complementary  colour  to  the  air  in  the 
early  evening. 

Essay  on  London 

HEAVENLY  colour,  London  town 
wxvo^.  Has  blurred  it  from  her  skies; 

And,  hooded  in  an  earthly  brown, 
Unheaven'd  the  city  lies. 
No  longer  standard-like  this  hue 

Above  the  broad  road  flies; 
Nor  does  the  narrow  street  the  blue 
Wear,  slender  pennon-wise. 

But  when  the  gold  and  silver  lamps 

Colour  the  London  dew. 
And,  misted  by  the  winter  damps, 

The  shops  shine  bright  anew — 
Blue  comes  to  earth,  it  walks  the  street. 

It  dyes  the  wide  air  through; 
A  mimic  sky  about  their  feet. 

The  throng  go  crowned  with  blue. 

ALICE  MEYNELL 

-C3o>: 


THE  SHEPHERDESS 

IHE  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 
A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 
Her  flocks  are  thoughts.     She  keeps 
them  white; 
She  guards  them  from  the  steep; 
She  feeds  them  on  the  fragrant  height, 
And  folds  them  in  for  sleep. 

She  roams  maternal  hills  and  bright, 

Dark  valleys  safe  and  deep. 
Into  that  tender  breast  at  night 

The  chastest  stars  may  peep. 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

She  holds  her  little  thoughts  in  sight, 
Though  gay  they  run  and  leap. 

She  is  so  circumspect  and  right; 
She  has  her  soul  to  keep. 

She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 
A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

ALICE  MEYNELL 

-C31> 


THE  DEAD 

(LOW  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich 
Dead! 
There's  none  of  these  so  lonely 
and  poor  of  old, 
But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than 
gold. 
These  laid  the  world  away;  poured  out  the 

red 
Sweet  wine  of  youth;  gave  up  the  years  to 
be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  se- 
rene, 
That  men  call  age;  and  those  who  would 
have  been. 
Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow!     They  brought  us,  for 
our  dearth. 
Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and 
Pain. 


RECENT  POETRY 

Honour  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth, 
And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage; 

And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again; 
And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

RUPERT  BROOKE 


#■ 


# 


•C33:}- 


\l 


THE  GREAT  LOVER 

HAVE  been  so  great  a  lover:  filled 
my  days 
So  proudly  with  the  splendour  of 
Love's  praise. 
The  pain,  the  calm,  and  the  astonishment, 
Desire  illimitable,  and  still  content. 
And  all  dear  names  men  use,  to  cheat  de- 
spair, 
For  the  perplexed   and  viewless   streams 

that  bear 
Our  hearts  at  random  down  the  dark  of 

life. 
No^,   ere  the  unthinking  silence  on  that 

strife 
Steals  down,  I  would  cheat  drowsy  Death 

so  far, 
My  night  shall  be  remembered  for  a  star 
That  outshone  all  the  suns  of  all  men's 

days. 
Shall  I  not  crown  them  with  immortal  praise 

{;34> 


RECENT  POETRY 

Whom  I  have  loved,  who  have  given  me, 

dared  with  me 
High  secrets,  and  in  darkness  knelt  to  see 
The  inenarrable  godhead  of  delight? 
Love  is  a  flame; — we  have  beaconed  the 

world's  night. 
A  city: — and  we  have  built  it,  these  and  I. 
An  emperor: — we  have  taught  the  world  to 

die. 
So,  for  their  sakes  I  loved,  ere  I  go  hence, 
And  the  high  cause  of  Love's  magnificence. 
And.  to  keep  loyalties  young,  I'll  write  those 

names 
Golden  for  ever,  eagles,  crying  flames, 
And  set  them  as  a  banner,  that  men  may 

know. 
To  dare  the  generations,  bum,  and  blow 
Out  on  the  wind  of  Time,  shining  and 

streaming.  .  .  . 
These  I  have  loved: 

White  plates  and  cups,  clean-gleaming. 
Ringed  with  blue  lines;  and  feathery,  faery 

dust; 
Wet   roofs,    beneath   the   lamp-light;    the 

strong  crust 

<35> 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

Of  friendly  bread;  and  many-tasting  food; 
Rainbows;   and  the  blue  bitter  smoke  of 

wood; 
And   radiant  raindrops   couching   in   cool 

flowers; 
And  flowers  themselves,  that  sway  through 

sunny  hours, 
Dreaming  of  moths  that  drink  them  under 

the  moon; 
Then,  the  cool  kindliness  of  sheets,  that 

soon 
Smooth  away  trouble;  and  the  rough  male 

kiss 
Of  blankets;  grainy  wood;  live  hair  that  is 
Shining  and  free;  blue-massing  clouds;  the 

keen 
Unpassioned  beauty  of  a  great  machine; 
The  benison  of  hot  water;  furs  to  touch; 
The  good  smell  of  old  clothes;  and  other 

such — 
The  comfortable  smell  of  friendly  fingers, 
Hair's  fragrance,  and  the  musty  reek  that 

lingers 
About  dead  leaves  and  last  year's  ferns.  .  .  . 
-C36> 


RECENT  POETRY 

Dear  names, 
And  thousand  other  throng  to  me!     Royal 

flames; 
Sweet  water's  dimpling  laugh  from  tap  or 

spring; 
Holes  in  the  ground;  and  voices  that  do 

sing; 
Voices  in  laughter,  too;  and  body's  pain, 
Soon  turned  to  peace;  and  the  deep-panting 

train; 
Firm    sands;    the    little    dulling   edge    of 

foam 
That  browns  and  dwindles  as  the  wave  goes 

home; 
And  washen  stones,  gay  for  an  hour;  the 

cold 
Graveness   of   iron;   moist   black   earthen 

mould; 
Sleep;  and  high  places;  footprints  in  the 

dew; 
And    oaks;    and    brown    horse-chestnuts, 

glossy -new; — 
And  new-peeled  sticks;  and  shining  pools 

on  grass; — 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

All  these  have  been  my  loves.     And  these 

shall  pass, 
Whatever  passes  not,  in  the  great  hour, 
Nor  all  my  passion,  all  my  prayers,  have 

power 
To  hold  them  with  me  through  the  gate  of 

Death. 
They'll  play  deserter,  turn  with  the  traitor 

breath. 
Break  the  high  bond  we  made,  and  sell 

Love's  trust 
And  sacramented  covenant  to  the  dust. 
— Oh,  never  a  doubt  but,   somewhere,   I 

shall  wake. 
And  give  what's  left  of  love  again,  and 

make 
New  friends,  now  strangers.  .  .  . 

But  the  best  I've  known. 
Stays  here,  and  changes,  breaks,  grows  old, 

is  blown 
About  the  winds  of  the  world,  and  fades 

from  brains 
Of  living  men,  and  dies. 

Nothing  remains. 


RECENT  POETRY 

0  dear  my  loves,  0  faithless,  once  again 
This  one  last  gift  I  give:  that  after  men 
Shall  know,  and  later  lovers,  far-removed, 
Praise  you,  "All  these  were  lovely";  say, 
"He  loved." 

RUPERT  BROOKE 


^39> 


THE  SOLDIER 

^F  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 
That  there's  some  corner  of  a  for- 
eign field 
That    is    for    ever    England.     There 
shall  be 
In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed ; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made 
aware. 
Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways 
to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English 
air, 
Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of 
home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 
Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by 
England  given; 
Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as 
her  day; 


RECENT  POETRY 

And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gen- 
tleness, 

In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English 
heaven. 

RUPERT  BROOKE 


•C41:}- 


BY  THE  STATUE  OF  KING  CHARLES 
AT  CHARING  CROSS 

] OMBRE  and  rich,  the  skies; 
^|h  Great  glooms,  and  starry  plains. 
Gently  the  night  wind  sighs; 
Else  a  vast  silence  reigns. 

The  splendid  silence  clings 
Around  me:  and  around 
The  saddest  of  all  kings 
Crowned,  and  again  discrowned. 

Comely  and  calm,  he  rides 
Hard  by  his  own  Whitehall: 
Only  the  night  wind  glides: 
No  crowds,  nor  rebels,  brawl. 

Gone,  too,  his  Court;  and  yet, 
The  stars  his  courtiers  are: 
Stars  in  their  stations  set; 
And  every  wandering  star. 

-C42> 


RECENT  POETRY 

Alone  he  rides,  alone, 
The  fair  and  fatal  king: 
Dark  night  is  all  his  own, 
That  strange  and  solemn  thing. 

Which  are  more  full  of  fate: 
The  stars;  or  those  sad  eyes? 
Which  are  more  still  and  great: 
Those  brows;  or  the  dark  skies? 

Although  his  whole  heart  yearn 
In  passionate  tragedy: 
Never  was  face  so  stern 
With  sweet  austerity. 

Vanquished  in  life,  his  death 
By  beauty  made  amends: 
The  passing  of  his  breath 
Won  his  defeated  ends. 

Brief  life  and  hapless?     Nay: 
Through  death,  life  grew  sublime. 
Speak  after  sentence?     Yea : 
And  to  the  end  of  time. 


RECENT  POETRY 

Armoured  he  rides,  his  head 
Bare  to  the  stars  of  doom: 
He  triumphs  now,  the  dead, 
Beholding  London's  gloom. 

Our  wearier  spirit  faints. 
Vexed  in  the  world's  employ: 
His  soul  was  of  the  saints; 
And  art  to  him  was  joy. 

King,  tried  in  fires  of  woe! 
Men  hunger  for  thy  grace: 
And  through  the  night  I  go. 
Loving  thy  mournful  face. 

Yet  when  the  city  sleeps; 
When  all  the  cries  are  still: 
The  stars  and  heavenly  deeps 
Work  out  a  perfect  will. 

LIONEL  JOHNSON 


-C44> 


V 


CHECK 

!>HE  night  was  creeping  on  the  ground; 
She  crept  and  did  not  make  a  sound 
Until  she  reached  the  tree,  and  then 

She  covered  it,  and  stole  again 

Along  the  grass  beside  the  wall. 

I  heard  the  rustle  of  her  shawl 
As  she  threw  blackness  everywhere 
Upon  the  sky  and  ground  and  air, 
And  in  the  room  where  I  was  hid: 
But  no  matter  what  she  did 
To  everything  that  was  without. 
She  could  not  put  my  candle  out. 

So  I  stared  at  the  night,  and  she 
Stared  back  solemnly  at  me. 

JAMES   STEPHENS 


<^S> 


WHEN  THE  LEAVES  FALL 

)HEN  the  leaves  fall  off  the  trees 
Everybody  walks  on  them: 
Once  they  had  a  time  of  ease 
High  above,  and  every  breeze 
Used  to  stay  and  talk  to  them. 

Then  they  were  so  debonair 

As  they  fluttered  up  and  down; 
Dancing  in  the  sunny  air, 
Dancing  without  knowing  there 
Was  a  gutter  in  the  town. 

Now  they  have  no  place  at  all! 

All  the  home  that  they  can  find 
Is  a  gutter  by  a  wall. 
And  the  wind  that  waits  their  fall 

Is  an  apache  of  a  wind. 

JAMES  STEPHENS 


•C46> 


IN  FRANCE 

^HE  poplars  in  the  fields  of  France 
Are  golden  ladies  come  to  dance; 
But  yet  to  see  them  there  is  none 
But  I  and  the  September  sun. 

The  girl  who  in  their  shadow  sits 
Can  only  see  the  sock  she  knits; 
Her  dog  is  watching  all  the  day 
That  not  a  cow  shall  go  astray. 

The  leisurely  contented  cows 
Can  only  see  the  earth  they  browse; 
Their  piebald  bodies  through  the  grass 
With  busy,  munching  noses  pass. 

Alone  the  sun  and  I  behold 
Processions  crowned  with  shining  gold — 
The  poplars  in  the  fields  of  France, 
Like  glorious  ladies  come  to  dance. 

FRANCES  CORNFORD 


THE  RAGWORT 

^HE  thistles  on  the  sandy  flats 
Are  courtiers  with  crimson  hats; 
The  ragwouts,  growing  up  so  straight. 
Are  emperors  who  stand  in  state, 
And  march  about,  so  proud  and  bold, 
In  crowns  of  fairy-story  gold. 

The  people  passing  home  at  night 
Rejoice  to  see  the  shining  sight. 
They  quite  forget  the  sands  and  sea 
Which  are  as  grey  as  grey  can  be. 
Nor  ever  heed  the  gulls  who  cry 
Like  peevish  children  in  the  sky. 

FRANCES   CORNFORD 


<^8> 


LONE  DOG 

f'M  a  lean  dog,  a  keen  dog,  a  wild  dog, 
and  lone; 
I'm  a  rough  dog,  a  tough  dog,  hunt- 
ing on  my  own; 
I'm  a  bad  dog,  a  mad  dog,  teasing  silly- 
sheep; 
I  love  to  sit  and  bay  the  moon,  to  keep  fat 
souls  from  sleep. 

I'll  never  be  a  lap  dog,  licking  dirty  feet, 
A  sleek  dog,  a  meek  dog,  cringing  for  my 

meat. 
Not  for  me  the  fireside,  the  well-filled  plate, 
But  shut  door,  and  sharp  stone,  and  cuff, 

and  kick,  and  hate. 

Not  for  me  the  other  dogs,  running  by  my 

side. 
Some  have  run  a  short  while,  but  none  of 

them  would  bide. 

<49> 


RECENT  POETRY 

0  mine  is  still  the  lone  trail,  the  hard  trail, 

the  best, 
Wide  wind,  and  wild  stars,  and  the  hunger 

of  the  quest! 

IRENE   R.    MCLEOD 


<5oy 


IF  I  HAD  A  BROOMSTICK 

fF  I  had  a  broomstick,  and  knew  how 
to  ride  it, 
I'd  fly  through  the  windows  when  Jane 
goes  to  tea, 
And  over  the  tops  of  the  chimneys  Fd  guide 

it, 
To  lands  where  no  children  are  cripples 

like  me; 
Fd  run  on  the  rocks  with  the  crabs  and  the 

sea. 
Where  soft  red  anemones  close  when  you 

touch; 
If  I  had  a  broomstick,  and  knew  how  to 

ride  it. 
If  I  had  a  broomstick — instead  of  a  crutch! 

PATRICK  R.   CHALMERS 


•C51> 


ROUNDABOUTS  AND  SWINGS 

^T  was  early  last  September  night  to 
Framlin'am-on-Sea, 

An'  'twas  Fair-day  come  to-morrow, 
an'  the  time  was  after  tea, 
An'  I  met  a  painted  caravan  adown  a  dusty 

lane, 
A  Pharaoh  with  his  waggons  comin'  jolt  an' 

creak  an'  strain; 
A  cheery  cove  an'  sunburnt,  bold  o'  eye 

and  wrinkled  up. 
An'  beside  him  on  the  splashboard  sat  a 

brindled  tarrier  pup. 
An'  a  lurcher  wise  as  Solomon  an'  lean  as 

fiddle-strings 
Was  joggin'  in  the  dust  along  'is  round- 
abouts and  swings. 

"Goo'-day,"  said  'e;  "Goo'-day,"  said  I; 

"an'  'ow  d'you  find  things  go. 
An'  what's  the  chance  o'  millions  when  you 

runs  a  travellin'  show?" 

<52> 


RECENT  POETRY 

"I  find,"  said  'e,  "things  very  much  as  'ow 

I've  always  found, 
For  mostly  they  goes  up  and  down  or  else 

goes  round  and  round." 
Said  'e,  "The  job's  the  very  spit  o'  what  it 

always  were, 
It's  bread  and  bacon  mostly  when  the  dog 

don't  catch  a  'are; 
But  lookin'  at  it  broad,  an'  while  it  ain't 

no  merchant  king's. 
What's  lost  upon  the  roundabouts  we  pulls 

up  on  the  swings! 

"Goo'  luck,"  said  'e;  "Goo'  luck,"  said  I; 
"you've  put  it  past  a  doubt; 

An'  keep  that  lurcher  on  the  road,  the  game- 
keepers is  out"; 

'E  thumped  upon  the  footboard  an'  'e  lum- 
bered on  again 

To  meet  a  gold-dust  sunset  down  the  owl- 
light  in  the  lane; 

An'  the  moon  she  climbed  the  'azels,  while 
a  nightjar  seemed  to  spin 

That  Pharaoh's  wisdom  o'er  again,  'is  sooth 
of  lose-and-win; 

-C53> 


RECENT  POETRY  j 

For  "up  an'  down  an'  round,"  said  'e,  "goes 

all  appointed  things, 
An'  losses  on  the  roundabouts  means  profits 

on  the  swings!" 

PATRICK  R.   CHALMERS 


-C54:^ 


A  TOWN  WINDOW 

^EYOND  my  window  in  the  night 
Is  but  a  drab  inglorious  street, 
Yet  there  the  frost  and  clean  star- 
light 
As  over  Warwick  woods  are  sweet. 

'  Under  the  grey  drift  of  the  town 
The  crocus  works  among  the  mould 
As  eagerly  as  those  that  crown 
The  Warwick  spring  in  flame  and  gold. 

And  when  the  tramway  down  the  hill 
Across  the  cobbles  moans  and  rings, 
There  is  about  my  window-sill 
The  tumult  of  a  thousand  wings. 

JOHN  DRINKWATER 


-C55> 


BRUMANA 

,  H  shall  I  never  never  be  home  again? 
Meadows  of  England  shining  in  the 
rain 

Spread  wide  your  daisied  lawns:  your  ram- 
parts green 
With  briar  fortify,  with  blossom  screen 
Till  my  far  morning — and  0  streams  that 

slow 
And  pure  and  deep  through  plains  and  play- 
lands  go, 
For  me  your  love  and  all  your  kingcups 

store, 
And — dark  militia  of  the  southern  shore, 
Old  fragrant  friends — preserve  me  the  last 

lines 
Of  that  long  saga  which  you  sung  me,  pines. 
When,  lonely  boy,  beneath  the  chosen  tree 
I  listened,  with  my  eyes  upon  the  sea. 

[Continued^ 

JAMES  ELROY  FLECKER 
<56> 


THE  DYING  PATRIOT 

I  AY   breaks    on    England    down   the 
Kentish  hills, 
Singing     in     the     silence     of    the 
meadow-footing  rills, 
Day  of  my  dreams,  0  day! 

I  saw  them  march  from  Dover,  long  ago. 
With  a  silver  cross  before  them,  singing 
low. 
Monks  of  Rome  from  their  home  where  the 
blue  seas  break  in  foam, 
Augustine  with  his  feet  of  snow. 

Noon  strikes  on  England,  noon  on  Oxford 

town, 
— Beauty  she  was  statue  cold — there's  blood 

upon  her  gown: 
Noon  of  my  dreams,  0  noon! 

Proud  and  godly  kings  had  built  her,  long 

ago. 
With  her  towers  and  tombs  and  statues 
all  arow, 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

With  her  fair  and  floral  air  and  the  love 
that  lingers  there, 
And  the  streets  where  the  great  men  go. 

Evening  on  the  olden,  the  golden  sea  of 

Wales, 
When  the  first  star  shivers  and  the  last  wave 

pales: 
0  evening  dreams! 

There's  a  house  that  Britons  walked  in, 

long  ago. 
Where  now  the  springs  of  ocean  fall  and 
flow, 
And  the  dead  robed  in  red  and  sea-lilies 
overhead 
Sway  when  the  long  winds  blow. 

Sleep  not,  my  country:  though  night  is  here, 

afar 
Your  children  of  the  morning  are  clamorous 

for  war: 
Fire  in  the  night,  0  dreams! 

Though  she  send  you  as  she  sent  you, 

long  ago. 


RECENT  POETRY 

South  to  desert,  east  to  ocean,  west  to 
snow. 
West  of  these  out  to  seas  colder  than  the 
Hebrides  I  must  go 
Where  the  fleet  of  stars  is  anchored  and 
the  young  Star-captains  glow. 

JAMES  ELROY  FLECKER 


<59> 


NOVEMBER  EVES 

^  OVEMBER  Evenings !     Damp  and 
still 
They  used  to   cloak  Leckhampton 
hill, 
And  lie  down  close  on  the  grey  plain, 
And  dim  the  dripping  window-pane, 
And  send  queer  winds  like  Harlequins 
That  seized  our  elms  for  violins 
And  struck  a  note  so  sharp  and  low 
Even  a  child  could  feel  the  woe. 

Now  fire  chased  shadow  round  the  room; 
Tables  and  chairs  grew  vast  in  gloom: 
We  crept  about  like  mice,  while  Nurse 
Sat  mending,  solemn  as  a  hearse. 
And  even  our  unlearned  eyes 
Half  closed  with  choking  memories. 

Is  it  the  mist  or  the  dead  leaves. 

Or  the  dead  men —     November  eves? 

JAMES   ELROY  FLECKER 

-{:60> 


STAR-TALK 

\  RE  you  awake,  Gemelli, 
This  frosty  night?" 
"We'll  be  awake  till  reveille, 
Which  is  Sunrise,"  say  the  Gemelli, 
"It's  no  good  trying  to  go  to  sleep: 
If  there's  wine  to  be  got  we'll  drink  it  deep, 
But  rest  is  hopeless  to-night. 
But  rest  is  hopeless  to-night." 

"Are  you  cold  too,  poor  Pleiads, 

This  frosty  night?" 
"Yes,  and  so  are  the  Hyads: 
See  us  cuddle  and  hug,"  says  the  Pleiads, 
"All  six  in  a  ring:  it  keeps  us  warm: 
We  huddle  together  like  birds  in  a  storm: 
It's  bitter  weather  to-night. 
It's  bitter  weather  to-night." 

"What  do  you  hunt,  Orion, 

This  starry  night?" 
"The  Ram,  the  Bull  and  the  Lion, 
And  the  Great  Bear,"  says  Orion, 
^61> 


RECENT  POETRY 

"With  my  starry  quiver  and  beautiful  belt 
I  am  trying  to  find  a  good  thick  pelt 
To  warm  my  shoulders  to-night, 
To  warm  my  shoulders  to-night." 

"Did  you  hear  that,  Great  She-bear, 

This  frosty  night?" 
"Yes,  he's  talking  of  stripping  me  bare. 
Of  my  own  big  fur,"  says  the  She-bear. 
"Fm  afraid  of  the  man  and  his  terrible  ar- 
row: 
The  thought  of  it  chills  my  bones  to  the 
marrow, 

And  the  frost  so  cruel  to-night! 

And  the  frost  so  cruel  to-night!" 

"How  is  your  trade,  Aquarius, 

This  frosty  night?" 
"Complaints  is  many  and  various, 
And  my  feet  are  cold,"  says  Aquarius, 
"There's  Venus  objects  to  Dolphin-scales, 
And  Mars  to  Crab-spawn  found  in  my  pails. 
And  the  pump  has  frozen  to-night, 
And  the  pump  has  frozen  to-night." 

ROBERT  GRAVES 


THE  KINGFISHER 

)*T  was  the  Rainbow  gave  thee  birth, 
And  left  thee  all  her  lovely  hues; 
And,  as  her  mother's  name  was  Tears, 
So  runs  it  in  thy  blood  to  choose 
For  haunts  the  lonely  pools,  and  keep 
In  company  with  trees  that  weep. 

Go  you  and,  with  such  glorious  hues. 

Live  with  proud  Peacocks  in  green  parks; 

On  lawns  as  smooth  as  shining  glass. 
Let  every  feather  show  its  mark; 

Get  thee  on  boughs  and  clap  thy  wings 

Before  the  windows  of  proud  kings. 

Nay,  lovely  Bird,  thou  art  not  vain; 

Thou  hast  no  proud  ambitious  mind; 
I  also  love  a  quiet  place 

That's  green,  away  from  all  mankind; 
A  lonely  pool,  and  let  a  tree 
Sigh  with  her  bosom  over  me. 

WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES 


SHEEP 

HEN  I  was  once  in  Baltimore 

A  man  came  up  to  me  and  cried, 
"Come,   I  have  eighteen  hundred 
sheep. 
And  we  will  sail  on  Tuesday's  tide. 

"If  you  will  sail  with  me,  young  man, 
I'll  pay  you  fifty  shillings  down; 

These  eighteen  hundred  sheep  I  take 
From  Baltimore  to  Glasgow  town." 

He  paid  me  fifty  shillings  down, 

I  sailed  with  eighteen  hundred  sheep; 

We  soon  had  cleared  the  harbour's  mouth, 
We  soon  were  in  the  salt  sea  deep. 

The  first  night  we  were  out  at  sea 

Those  sheep  were  quiet  in  their  mind; 

The  second  night  they  cried  with  fear — 
They  smelt  no  pastures  in  the  wind. 

<6^> 


RECENT  POETRY 

They  sniffed,  poor  things,  for  their  green 
fields. 

They  cried  so  loud  I  could  not  sleep: 
For  fifty  thousand  shillings  down 

I  would  not  sail  again  with  sheep. 

WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES 


<65> 


HOME  THOUGHTS  IN  LAVENTIE 

H^MjREEN  gardens  in  Laventie! 
limp        Soldiers  only  know  the  street 
Where  the  mud  is  churned  and 
splashed  about 
By  battle-wending-feet; 
And  yet  beside  one  stricken  house  there  is  a 
glimpse  of  grass, 
Look  for  it  when  you  pass. 

Beyond  the  Church  whose  pitted  spire 

Seems  balanced  on  a  strand 
Of  swaying  stone  and  tottering  brick 
Two  roofless  ruins  stand, 
And  here  behind  the  wreckage  where  the 
back- wall  should  have  been 
We  found  a  garden  green. 

The  grass  was  never  trodden  on, 

The  little  path  of  gravel 
Was  overgrown  with  celandine, 

No  other  folk  did  travel 
^66> 


RECENT  POETRY 

Along  its  weedy  surface,  but  the  nimble- 
footed  mouse 
Running  from  house  to  house. 

So  all  among  the  vivid  blades 
Of  soft  and  tender  grass 

We  lay,  nor  heard  the  limber  wheels 
That  pass  and  ever  pass, 
In  noisy  continuity,  until  their  stony  rattle 
Seems  in  itself  a  battle. 

At  length  we  rose  up  from  this  ease 

Of  tranquil  happy  mind. 
And  searched  the  garden's  little  length 
A  fresh  pleasaunce  to  find; 
And  there,  some  yellow  daffodils  and  jas- 
mine hanging  high 
Did  rest  the  tired  eye. 

The  fairest  and  most  fragrant 

Of  the  many  sweets  we  found, 
Was  a  little  bush  of  Daphne  flower 
Upon  a  grassy  mound. 
And  so  thick  were  the  blossoms  set,  and  so 
divine  the  scent. 
That  we  were  well  content. 
<61> 


RECENT  POETRY 

Hungry  for  Spring  I  bent  my  head, 

The  perfume  fanned  my  face, 
And  all  my  soul  was  dancing 
In  that  lovely  little  place. 
Dancing    with     a     measured     step     from 
wrecked  and  shattered  towns 
Away  .  .  .  upon  the  Downs. 

I  saw  green  banks  of  daffodil, 
Slim  poplars  in  the  breeze. 
Great  tan-brown  hares  in  gusty  March 
A-courting  on  the  leas; 
And  meadows  with  their  glittering  streams, 
and  silver  scurrying  dace. 
Home — ^what  a  perfect  place! 

EDWARD  WYNDHAM  TENNANT 


-C68:}- 


INTO  BATTLE 

^HE  naked  earth  is  warm  with  Spring, 
And  with  green  grass  and  bursting 
trees 
Leans  to  the  sun's  gaze  glorying. 

And  quivers  in  the  sunny  breeze; 
And  Life  is  Colour  and  Warmth  and  Light, 

And  a  striving  evermore  for  these; 
And  he  is  dead  who  will  not  fight; 
And  who  dies  fighting  has  increase. 

The  fighting  man  shall  from  the  sun 

Take  warmth,  and  life  from  the  glowing 
earth; 

Speed  with  the  light-foot  winds  to  run. 
And  with  the  trees  to  newer  birth; 

And  find,  when  fighting  shall  be  done. 
Great  rest,  and  fullness  after  dearth. 

All  the  bright  company  of  Heaven 
Hold  him  in  their  high  comradeship, 

The  Dog-Star  and  the  Sisters  Seven, 
Orion's  Belt  and  sworded  hip. 
-C69> 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

The  woodland  trees  that  stand  together, 
They  stand  to  him  each  one  a  friend, 

They  gently  speak  in  the  windy  weather; 
They  guide  to  valley  and  ridges'  end. 

The  kestrel  hovering  by  day. 

And  the  little  owls  that  call  by  night, 
Bid  him  be  swift  and  keen  as  they. 

As  keen  of  ear,  as  swift  of  sight. 

The    blackbird    sings    to    him,    "Brother, 
brother. 

If  this  be  the  last  song  you  shall  sing 
Sing  well,  for  you  may  not  sing  another; 

Brother,  sing." 

In  dreary,  doubtful,  waiting  hours. 
Before  the  brazen  frenzy  starts. 

The  horses  show  him  nobler  powers; 
0  patient  eyes,  courageous  hearts! 

And  when  the  burning  moment  breaks. 
And  all  things  else  are  out  of  mind. 

And  only  Joy  of  Battle  takes 

Him    by    the    throat,    and    makes    him 
blind— 


RECENT  POETRY 

Though  joy  and  blindness  he  shall  know, 
Not  caring  much  to  know,  that  still, 

Nor  lead  nor  steel  shall  reach  him,  so 
That  it  be  not  the  Destined  Will. 

The  thundering  line  of  battle  stands. 
And  in  the  air  Death  moans  and  sings; 

But  Day  shall  clasp  him  with  strong  hands. 
And  Night  shall  fold  him  in  soft  wings. 
JULIAN  GRENFELL 


^71> 


OVERHEARD  ON  A  SALTMARSH 

\  YMPH,  nymph,  what  are  your  beads? 
Green  glass,  goblin.     Why  do  you 
stare  at  them? 
Give  them  me. 

No. 

Give  them  me.     Give  them  me. 

No. 

Then  I  will  howl  all  night  in  the  reeds. 
Lie  in  the  mud  and  howl  for  them. 

Goblin,  why  do  you  love  them  so? 

They  are  better  than  stars  or  water. 
Better  than  voices  of  winds  that  sing, 
Better  than  any  man's  fair  daughter. 
Your  green  glass  beads  on  a  silver  ring. 

<12> 


RECENT  POETRY 
Hush,  I  stole  them  out  of  the  moon. 

Give  me  your  beads.     I  desire  them. 

No. 

I  will  howl  in  a  deep  lagoon 
For  your  green  glass  beads,  I  love  them  so. 
Give  them  me.     Give  them. 

No. 

HAROLD  MONRO 


-C73> 


A  FLOWER  IS  LOOKING  THROUGH 
THE  GROUND 

FLOWER   is   looking  through   the 
ground, 
Blinking  at  the  April  weather; 
Now  a  child  has  seen  the  flower: 
Now  they  go  and  play  together. 

Now  it  seems  the  flower  will  speak, 
And  will  call  the  child  its  brother — 
But,  oh  strange  f orgetf ulness ! — 
They  don't  recognize  each  other. 

HAROLD  MONRO 


^74> 


MAN  CARRYING  BALE 

|>HE  tough  hand  closes  partly  on  the 
load; 

Out  of  the  mind,  a  voice 
Calls,  "Lift!"  and  the  arms,  remembering 
well  their  work. 
Lengthen  and  pause  for  help. 
Then  a  slow  ripple  flows  from  head  to  foot 
While  all  the  muscles  call  to  one  another: 
"Lift!"  and  the  bulging  bale 
Floats  like  a  butterfly  in  June. 

So  moved  the  earliest  carrier  of  bales. 

And  the  same  watchful  sun 
Glowed  through  his  body  feeding  it  with 
light. 

So  will  the  last  one  move, 
And  halt,  and  dip  his  head,  and  lay  his  load 
Down,  and  the  muscles  will  relax  and  trem- 
ble. 

Earth,  you  designed  your  man 

Beautiful  both  in  labour  and  repose. 

HAROLD  MONRO 

^75> 


THE  CHERRY  TREES 

HE  cherry  trees  bend  over  and  are 
_  shedding 

On  the  old  road  where  all  that  passed 
are  dead, 
Their  petals,  strewing  the  grass  as  for  a 

wedding 
This  early  May  mom  when  there  is  none 
to  wed. 

EDWARD  THOMAS 


-C76> 


THE  BELLS  OF  HEAVEN 

?^?^WOULD  ring  the  bells  of  Heaven 
The  wildest  peal  for  years, 
If  Parson  lost  his  senses 
And  people  came  to  theirs, 
And  he  and  they  together 
Knelt  down  with  angry  prayers 
For  tamed  and  shabby  tigers 
And  dancing  dogs  and  bears, 
And  wretched,  blind  pit  ponies. 
And  little  hunted  hares. 

RALPH  HODGSON 


<11> 


THE  SONG  OF  HONOUR 

CLIMBED  a  hill  as  light  fell  short, 
And  rooks  came  home  in  scramble 
sort. 
And  filled  the  trees  and  flapped  and  fought 

And  sang  themselves  to  sleep; 
An  owl  from  nowhere  with  no  sound 
Swung  by  and  soon  was  nowhere  found, 
I  heard  him  calling  half-way  round, 

Holloing  loud  and  deep; 
A  pair  of  stars,  faint  pins  of  light. 
Then  many  a  star,  sailed  into  sight, 
And  all  the  stars,  the  flower  of  night. 

Were  round  me  at  a  leap ; 
To  tell  how  still  the  valleys  lay 
I  heard  a  watch-dog  miles  away. 

And  bells  of  distant  sheep. 

I  heard  no  more  of  bird  or  bell, 
The  mastifi"  in  a  slumber  fell, 

I  stared  into  the  sky. 
As  wondering  men  have  always  done 


RECENT  POETRY 

Since  beauty  and  the  stars  were  one, 

Though  none  so  hard  as  I. 
It  seemed,  so  still  the  valleys  were, 
As  if  the  whole  world  knelt  at  prayer, 

Save  me  and  me  alone; 
So  pure  and  wide  that  silence  was 
I  feared  to  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 

And  there  I  stood  like  stone. 

[Continued] 

RALPH  HODGSON 


•C79:}- 


STUPIDITY  STREET 

SAW  with  open  eyes 

Singing  birds  sweet 

Sold  in  the  shops 
For  the  people  to  eat, 
Sold  in  the  shops  of 
Stupidity  Street. 

I  saw  in  vision 
The  worm  in  the  wheat, 
And  in  the  shops  nothing 
For  people  to  eat; 
Nothing  for  sale  in 
Stupidity  Street. 

RALPH  HODGSON 


-C80> 


TO  THE  COMING  SPRING 

PUNCTUAL  Spring! 

We   had    forgotten    in   this   winter 
town 
The  days  of  Summer  and  the  long,  long 

eves. 
But  now  you  come  on  airy  wing. 
With  busy  fingers  spilling  baby-leaves 
On  all  the  bushes,  and  a  faint  green  down 
On  ancient  trees,  and  everywhere 
Your  warm  breath  soft  with  kisses 
Stirs  the  wintry  air. 
And  waking  us  to  unimagined  blisses. 
Your  lightest  footprints  in  the  grass 
Are  marked  by  painted  crocus-flowers 
And  heavy-headed  daffodils, 
While  little  trees  blush  faintly  as  you  pass. 
The  morning  and  the  night 
You  bathe  with  heavenly  showers. 
And  scatter  scentless  violets  on  the  rounded 
hills, 


RECENT  POETRY 

Drop  beneath  leafless  woods  pale  primrose 

posies. 
With  magic  key,  in  the  new  evening  light, 
You  are  unlocking  buds  that  keep  the  roses; 
The  purple  lilac  soon  will  blow  above  the 

wall 
And  bended  boughs  in  orchards  whitely 

bloom — 
We  had  forgotten  in  the  Winter's  gloom  .  .  . 
Soon  we  shall  hear  the  cuckoo  call! 

MARGARET   MACKENZIE 


-C82> 


ALMS  IN  AUTUMN 

PINDLE-WOOD,  spindle-wood,  will 
you  lend  me,  pray, 
A  little  flaming  lantern  to  guide  me 
on  my  way? 
The   fairies   all   have  vanished   from  the 

meadow  and  the  glen. 
And  I  would  fain  go  seeking  till  I  find  them 

once  again. 
Lend  me  now  a  lantern  that  I  may  bear  a 

light 
To  find  the  hidden  pathway  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night. 

Ash-tree,  ash-tree,  throw  me,  if  you  please. 

Throw  me  down  a  slender  branch  of  russet- 
gold  keys. 

I  fear  the  gates  of  Fairyland  may  all  be 
shut  so  fast 

That  nothing  but  your  magic  keys  will  ever 
take  me  past. 


RECENT  POETRY 

I'll  tie  them  to  my  girdle,  and  as  I  go 

along 
My  heart  will  find  a  comfort  in  the  tinkle 

of  their  song. 

Holly -bush,  holly-bush,  help  me  in  my  task, 
A  pocketful  of  berries  is  all  the  alms  I  ask: 
A  pocketful  of  berries  to  thread  in  golden 

strands 
(I  would  not  go  a-visiting  with  nothing  in 

my  hands). 
So  fine  will  be  the  rosy  chains,  so  gay,  so 

glossy  bright, 
They'll   set  the  realms   of  Fairyland   all 

dancing  with  delight. 

ROSE   FYLEMAN 


<m> 


I  DON'T  LIKE  BEETLES 

DON'T   like  beetles,   tho'   I'm   sure 

they're  very  good, 
I  don't  like  porridge,  tho'  my  Nanna 
says  I  should; 
I  don't  like  the  cistern  in  the  attic  where  I 

play, 
And  the  funny  noise  the  bath  makes  when 
the  water  runs  away. 

I  don't  like  the  feeling  when  my  gloves  are 

made  of  silk. 
And  that  dreadful  slimy  skinny  stuff  oh  top 

of  hot  milk; 
I  don't  like  tigers,  not  even  in  a  book. 
And,  I  know  it's  very  naughty,  but  I  don't 

like  Cook  I 

ROSE   FYLEMAN 


-C85> 


WISHES 

WISH  I  liked  rice  pudding, 

I  wish  I  were  a  twin, 
I  wish  some  day  a  real  live  fairy- 
Would  just  come  walking  in. 

I  wish  when  Fm  at  table 

My  feet  would  touch  the  floor, 

I  wish  our  pipes  would  burst  next  winter. 
Just  like  they  did  next  door. 

I  wish  that  I  could  whistle 

Real  proper  grown-up  tunes, 
I  wish  they'd  let  me  sweep  the  chimneys 

On  rainy  afternoons. 

I've  got  such  heaps  of  wishes, 

I've  only  said  a  few; 
I  wish  that  I  could  wake  some  morning 

And  find  they'd  all  come  true! 

ROSE   FYLEMAN 

^86> 


VERY  NEARLY! 

NEVER  quite  saw  fairy-folk 

A-dancing  in  the  glade, 
Where,  just  beyond  the  hollow  oak, 
Their  broad  green  rings  are  laid: 
But,  while  behind  that  oak  I  hid, 
One  day  I  very  nearly  did! 

I  never  quite  saw  mermaids  rise 

Above  the  twilight  sea. 
When  sands,  left  wet,  'neath  sunset  skies, 

Are  blushing  rosily: 
But — all  alone,  those  rocks  amid — 
One  night  I  very  nearly  did! 

I  never  quite  saw  Goblin  Grim 
Who  haunts  our  lumber  room 

And  pops  his  head  above  the  rim 
Of  that  oak  chest's  deep  gloom: 

But  once — ^when  Mother  raised  the  lid — 

/  very,  very  nearly  did! 

QUEENIE    SCOTT-HOPPER 
<Q1> 


WHAT  THE  THRUSH  SAYS 

\OME  and  see!     Come  and  seeF^ 
The  Thrush  pipes  out  of  the  haw- 
thorn-tree: 
And  I  and  Dicky  on  tiptoe  go 
To  see  what  treasures  he  wants  to  show. 
His  call  is  clear  as  a  call  can  be — 
And  "Come  and  see!"  he  says: 
"Come  and  see!" 

"CojTie  and  see!     Come  and  5ee/" 
His  house  is  there  in  the  hawthorn-tree: 
The  neatest  house  that  ever  you  saw, 
Built  all  of  mosses  and  twigs  and  straw: 
The  folk  who  built  were  his  wife  and  he — 
And  "Come  and  see!"  he  says: 
"Come  and  see!" 

^'Come  and  see!     Come  and  5ee/" 

Within  this  house  there  are  treasures  three: 

So  warm  and  snug  in  its  curve  they  lie — 


RECENT  POETRY 

Like  three  bright  bits  out  of  Spring's  blue 

sky. 
We  would  not  hurt  them,  he  knows;  not  we! 
So  "Come  and  see!"  he  says: 
"Come  and  see!" 

''Come  and  see!     Come  and  5ee/" 
No  thrush  was  ever  so  proud  as  he! 
His  bright-eyed  lady  has  left  those  eggs 
For  just  five  minutes  to  stretch  her  legs. 
He's  keeping  guard  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 
And  "Come  and  see!"  he  says: 
"Come  and  see!" 

''Come  and  see!     Come  and  5ee/" 

He  has  no  fear  of  the  boys  and  me. 

He  came  and  shared  in  our  meals,  you 

know, 
In  hungry  times  of  the  frost  and  snow. 
So  now  we  share  in  his  Secret  Tree 
Where  "Come  and  see!"  he  says: 
"Come  and  see!" 

QUEENIE    SCOTT-HOPPER 


-C89> 


THE  SUNSET  GARDEN 

CAN  see  from  the  window  a  little 

brown  house, 
And  the  garden  goes  up  to  the  top  of 
the  hill. 
And  the  sun  comes  each  day, 
And  slips  down  away 
At  the  end  of  the  garden  an'  sleeps  there 

.  .  .  until 
The  daylight  comes  climbing  up  over  the 
hill. 

I  do  wish  I  lived  in  the  little  brown  house, 
Then  at  night  Fd  go  out  to  the  garden,  an' 
creep 

Up  .  .  .  up  .  .  .  then  Fd  stop. 
An'  lean  over  the  top. 
At  the  end  of  the  garden,  an'  so  I  could 

peep. 
And  see  what  the  sun  looks  like  when  it's 
asleep. 

MARION   ST   JOHN   WEBB 


SWEET  AS  THE  BREATH  OF  THE 
WHIN 

^  WEET  as  the  breath  of  the  whin 
Is  the  thought  of  my  love — 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  whin 
In  the  noonday  sun — 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  whin 
In  the  sun  after  rain. 

Glad  as  the  gold  of  the  whin 
Is  the  thought  of  my  love — 

Glad  as  the  gold  of  the  whin 
Since  wandering's  done — 

Glad  as  the  gold  of  the  whin 
Is  my  heart,  home  again. 

WILFRED   WILSON   GIBSON 


-C91> 


THE  LAW  THE  LAWYERS  KNOW 
ABOUT 

^HE  law  the  lawyers  know  about 
Is  property  and  land; 
But  why  the  leaves  are  on  the  trees, 
And  why  the  winds  disturb  the  seas, 
Why  honey  is  the  food  of  bees, 
Why  horses  have  such  tender  knees. 
Why  winters  come  and  rivers  freeze, 
Why  Faith  is  more  than  what  one  sees, 
And  Hope  survives  the  worst  disease. 
And  Charity  is  more  than  these. 

They  do  not  understand. 

H.   D.   C.   PEPLER 


•C92> 


ALL  IS  SPIRIT  AND  PART  OF  ME 

GREATER  lover  none  can  be, 
And  all  is  spirit  and  part  of  me. 
I  am  sway  of  the  rolling  hills, 

And  breath  from  the  great  wide  plains; 

I  am  born  of  a  thousand  storms, 

And  grey  with  the  rushing  rains; 

I  have  stood  with  the  age-long  rocks. 

And  flowered  with  the  meadow  sweet; 

I  have  fought  with  the  wind-worn  firs, 

And  bent  with  the  ripening  wheat; 

I  have  watched  with  the  solemn  clouds, 

And  dreamt  with  the  moorland  pools; 

I  have  raced  with  the  water's  whirl. 

And  lain  where  their  anger  cools; 

I  have  hovered  as  strong-winged  bird. 

And  swooped  as  I  saw  my  prey; 

I  have  risen  with  cold  grey  dawn, 

And  flamed  in  the  dying  day; 

For  all  is  spirit  and  part  of  me. 

And  greater  lover  none  can  be. 

L.    d'o.   WALTERS 


SEVILLE 

KNOW  not  Seville, 
Yet  in  dreams  I  see 
The  April  roses 
Climb  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  foam  the  houses 
Till  they  seem  to  me 
Great  waves  of  blossom 
From  a  crimson  sea. 

I  know  not  Seville, 
Yet  in  dreams  I  see 
The  drooping  petals 
Falling  languidly, 
And  find  the  shadow 
Where  the  grass  is  red 
And  white  with  roses 
On  a  sun-warmed  bed! 

I  know  not  Seville, 
Yet  I  feel  the  night 
Grow  heavy  scented, 
<94> 


RECENT  POETRY 

Starred  with  roses  white, 
And  low-toned  singers, 
Up  and  down  the  street. 
Breathe  only  roses. 
Fallen  at  their  feet. 

L.   d'o.   WALTERS 


^95> 


STREET  LANTERNS 

OUNTRY    roads    are    yellow    and 
brown. 
We  mend  the  roads  in  London  town. 


Never  a  hansom  dare  come  nigh, 
Never  a  cart  goes  rolling  by. 

An  unwonted  silence  steals 
In  between  the  turning  wheels. 

Quickly  ends  the  autumn  day, 
And  the  workman  goes  his  way, 

Leaving,  midst  the  traffic  rude, 
One  small  isle  of  solitude. 

Lit,  throughout  the  lengthy  night, 
By  the  little  lantern's  light. 

Jewels  of  the  dark  have  we. 
Brighter  than  the  rustic's  be. 
^96:}- 


RECENT  POETRY 

Over  the  dull  earth  are  thrown 
Topaz,  and  the  ruby  stone. 

MARY   E.    COLERIDGE 


<97> 


TO  BETSEY- JANE,  ON  HER  DESIRING 
TO  GO  INCONTINENTLY  TO  HEAVEN 

I Y  Betsey- Jane,  it  would  not  do, 
For  what  would  Heaven  make  of 
you, 
A  little,  honey-loving  bear. 
Among  the  Blessed  Babies  there? 

Nor  do  you  dwell  with  us  in  vain 
Who  tumble  and  get  up  again 
And  try,  with  bruised  knees,  to  smile — 
Sweet,  you  are  blessed  all  the  while 

And  we  in  you:  so  wait,  they'll  come 
To  take  your  hand  and  fetch  you  home, 
In  Heavenly  leaves  to  play  at  tents 
With  all  the  Holy  Innocents. 

HELEN   PARRY   EDEN 


-C98> 


THE  BRIDGE 

^ERE,  with  one  leap, 
The  bridge  that  spans  the  cutting; 
on  its  back 
The  load 

Of  the  main-road, 
And  under  it  the  railway-track. 

Into  the  plains  they  sweep, 

Into  the  solitary  plains  asleep. 

The   flowing   lines,   the   parallel   lines   of 

steel — 
Fringed  with  their  narrow  grass, 
Into  the  plains  they  pass. 
The  flowing  lines,  like  arms  of  mute  appeal. 

A  cry 

Prolonged  across  the  earth — a  call 
To  the  remote  horizons  and  the  sky; 
The  whole  east  rushes  down  them  with  its 
light. 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

And  the  whole  west  receives  them,  with  its 

pall 
Of  stars  and  night — 
The  flowing  lines,  the  parallel  lines  of  steel. 

And  with  the  fall 

Of  darkness,  see!  the  red. 

Bright  anger  of  the  signal,  where  it  flares 

Like  a  huge  eye  that  stares 

On  some  hid  danger  in  the  dark  ahead. 

A  twang  of  wire — unseen 

The  signal  drops;  and  now,  instead 

Of  a  red  eye,  a  green. 

Out  of  the  silence  grows 

An  iron  thunder — ^grows,  and  roars,  and 

sweeps. 
Menacing!     The  plain 
Suddenly  leaps, 
Startled,  from  its  repose — 
Alert  and  listening.     Now,  from  the  gloom 
Of  the  soft  distance,  loom 
Three  lights  and,  over  them,  a  brush 
Of  tawny  flame  and  flying  spark — 
Three  pointed  lights  that  rush. 
Monstrous,  upon  the  cringing  dark. 


RECENT  POETRY; '^  ,,  ;    j,; 

And  nearer,  nearer  rolls  the  sound, 
Louder  the  throb  and  roar  of  wheels. 
The  shout  of  speed,  the  shriek  of  steam; 
The  sloping  bank. 
Cut  into  flashing  squares,  gives  back  the 

clank 
And  grind  of  metal,  while  the  ground 
Shudders  and  the  bridge  reels — 
As,  with  a  scream. 
The  train, 

A  rage  of  smoke,  a  laugh  of  fire, 
A  lighted  anguish  of  desire, 
A  dream 

Of  gold  and  iron,  of  sound  and  flight. 
Tumultuous  roars  across  the  night. 

The  train  roars  past — and,  with  a  cry, 
Drowned  in  a  flying  howl  of  wind, 
Half -stifled  in  the  smoke  and  blind, 
The  plain. 

Shaken,  exultant,  unconfined, 
Rises,  flows  on,  and  follows,  and  sweeps  by. 
Shrieking,  to  lose  itself  in  distance  and  the 
sky. 

J.   REDWOOD   ANDERSON 
^101> 


ALLOTMENTS 

;ONOTONOUS  and  regular 

And  mournful  the  allotments  lie, 
And  night, 
As  if  to  hide  their  misery  from  sight, 
Falls,  fold  on  fold,  from  the  cold  winter 
sky. 

A  stretch  of  wretched  garden-land 
Backed  by  a  row  of  tenements  that  cringe 
— Monotonous  and  regular — 
Upon  the  city's  outer  fringe. 

Between  it  and  the  pavement-edge 

Straggles  a  torn  and  ragged  hedge; 

And,  here  and  there  about  it,  stand 

Rude  sheds  of  planking  smeared  with  tar; 

While,  in  a  corner,  a  rough  mast  and  spar 

Futters  for  flag 

A  tattered  filthiness  of  rag. 

There  in  this  world  of  fog  and  smoke, 
— Monotonous  and  regular — 
-C102:^ 


RECENT  POETRY 

Bent  figures  move  about; 

They  are  the  pitiable  folk 

From  their  long  day  of  toil  let  out — 

From  their  day-labour  in  the  factory 

That  looms,  a  square-cut  menace  on  the 

sky, 
Near-by. 

Here,  one  will  plant  potatoes,  row  on  row, 

— Monotonous  and  regular — 

Another,  here,  will  grow 

Carrots  and  turnips,  beans  and  peas, 

Or  green  and  purple  cabbages; 

While  each  will  sow 

Nasturtium  or  sweet-pea — some  flower  to 

bring 
Him  light  and  gladness  in  the  spring. 

Though   scarce   shall  the   bud   break,   till 
from  the  air 

Damp  soot  shall  fall  to  shroud  it  in  de- 
spair 

Though  every  leaf 

Shall  hide  its  hope  in  hoods  of  grief — 

Though  no  flower-scent  shall  purify 
^103> 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

This  stench  of  oil,  this  reek  of  smoke. 
Where  a  poor  starved  humanity. 
And  its  poor  produce,  starved  and  stultified, 
Grow  side  by  side. 

So  far  from  nature's  first  intent. 

So  far  from  what  the  brown  earth  meant. 

So  far  from  what  the  wind  and  wet. 

The  seasons  and  the  sun. 

In  many  an  unlaborious  field  have  done! 

And  yet. 

When  one  of  these  poor  folk 

Shall  stand  and  gaze  in  summer's  easier 

hours 
Upon  the  humbled  beauty  of  his  flowers, 

Not  Adam  in  his  Paradise, 

Beheld  with  more  of  worship  in  his  eyes 

The  first 

Rare  rose  that  burst 

In  lovely  wonder  to  the  skies. 

Monotonous  and  regular 

And  mournful  the  allotments  lie — 

While  night, 

-{:i04> 


RECENT  POETRY 

As  if  to  hide  their  misery  from  sight, 
Falls,  fold  on  fold,  from  the  cold  catafalque 
of  sky. 

J.   REDWOOD  ANDERSON 


-C105> 


FEBRUARY 

^HE  robin  on  my  lawn 
He  was  the  first  to  tell 
How,  in  the  frozen  dawn, 
This  miracle  befell. 
Waking  the  meadows  white 
With  hoar,  the  iron  road 
Agleam  with  splintered  light, 
And  ice  where  water  flowed: 
Till,  when  the  low  sun  drank 
Those  milky  mists  that  cloak 
Hanger  and  hoUied  bank, 
The  winter  world  awoke 
To  hear  the  feeble  bleat 
Of  lambs  on  downland  farms: 
A  blackbird  whistled  sweet; 
Old  beeches  moved  their  arms 
Into  a  mellow  haze 
Aerial,  newly-born: 
And  I,  alone,  agaze, 
Stood  waiting  for  the  thorn 
To  break  in  blossom  white, 
-C106> 


RECENT  POETRY 

Or  burst  in  a  green  flame.  .  .  . 
So,  in  a  single  night. 
Fair  February  came. 
Bidding  my  lips  to  sing 
Or  whisper  their  surprise. 
With  all  the  joy  of  spring 
And  morning  in  her  eyes. 

FRANCIS   BRETT   YOUNG 


-C107> 


SEA-FOAM 

FLECK  of  foam  on  the  shining  sand. 

Left  by  the  ebbing  sea, 
But  richer  than  man  may  understand 
In  magic  and  mystery — 
Transient  bubbles  rainbow-bright, 

Myriad-hued  and  strange, 
Tremble  and  throb  in  the  noonday  light, 
Flower  and  flush  and  change. 

A  million  tides  have  come  and  gone. 

Great  gales  of  autumn  and  spring, 
A  million  summoning  moons  have  shone 

To  bring  to  birth  this  thing — 
A  foam-fleck  left  on  the  ribbed  wet  sand 

By  the  wave  of  an  outgoing  sea. 
With  all  the  colour  of  Faeryland, 

Wonder  and  mystery. 

TERESA   HOOLEY 


-cios:}- 


A  PETITION 

/LL  that  a  man  might  ask,  thou  hast 
given  me,  England, 
Birth-right  and  happy  childhood's 
long  heart's-ease. 
And  love  whose  range  is  deep  beyond  all 
sounding 
And  wider  than  all  seas. 

A  heart  to  front  the  world  and  find  God 
in  it. 
Eyes  blind  enow,  but  not  too  blind  to 
see 
The   lovely  things  behind  the   dross   and 
darkness. 
And  lovelier  things  to  be. 

And  friends  whose  loyalty  time  nor  death 
shall  weaken. 
And    quenchless    hope    and    laughter's 
golden  store; 

<109> 


RECENT  POETRY 

All  that  a  man  might  ask  thou  hast  given 
me,  England, 
Yet  grant  thou  one  thing  more: 

That  now  when  envious  foes  would  spoil 
thy  splendour. 
Unversed  in  arms,  a  dreamer  such  as  I 
May  in  thy  ranks  be  deemed  not  all  un- 
worthy, 
England,  for  thee  to  die. 

R.    E.   VERNEDE 


-C110> 


BLACK  AND  WHITE 

MET  a  man  along  the  road 
To  Withemsea; 
Was  ever  anything  so  dark,  so  pale 
As  he? 
His  hat,  his  clothes,  his  tie,  his  boots 
Were  black  as  black 
Could  be, 
And  midst  of  all  was  a  cold  white  face, 
And  eyes  that  looked  wearily. 

The  road  was  bleak  and  straight  and  flat 

To  Withemsea, 
Gaunt  poles  with  shrilling  wires  their  weird 

Did  dree; 
On  the  sky  stood  out,  on  the  swollen  sky 
The  black  blood  veins 

Of  tree 
After  tree,  as  they  beat  from  the  face 
Of  the  wind  which  they  could  not  flee. 

-Clll> 


RECENT  POETRY 

And  in  the  fields  along  the  road 

To  Withemsea, 
Swart  crows  sat  huddled  on  the  ground 

Disconsolately, 
While  overhead  the  seamews  wheeled,  and 
skirled 

In  glee; 
But  the  black  crows  stood,  and  cropped 
where  they  stood. 

And  nevei  heeded  thee, 
0  dark  pale  man,  with  the  weary  eyes. 

On  the  road  to  Withernsea. 

H.    H.    ABBOTT 


^:ll2:^ 


THE  OXEN 

CHRISTMAS  EVE,  and  twelve  of  the 
clock. 
"Now  they  are  all  on  their  knees," 
An  elder  said  as  we  sat  in  a  flock 
By  the  embers  in  hearthside  ease. 

We  pictured  the  meek  mild  creatures  where 
They  dwelt  in  their  strawy  pen. 

Nor  did  it  occur  to  one  of  us  there 
To  doubt  they  were  kneeling  then. 

So  fair  a  fancy  few  believe 

In  these  years!     Yet,  I  feel, 
If  someone  said  on  Christmas  Eve 

"Come;  see  the  oxen  kneel 

In  the  lonely  barton  by  yonder  coomlj 
Our  childhood  used  to  know," 

I  should  go  with  him  in  the  gloom, 
Hoping  it  might  be  so. 

THOMAS  HARDY 

-C113> 


Of  m  FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


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5hn'56PLZ 


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